


Safety Pins

by messjon



Category: Pierce the Veil
Genre: Hardcore, M/M, Punk, fuenciado - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-08-29
Packaged: 2018-03-05 00:13:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3097814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/messjon/pseuds/messjon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Vic was all hair and lungs. He secretly liked Bowie, but that was okay, because he still liked Black Flag and he still had the best, most violent voice Jaime had ever heard. A couple of punk kids living in 1983, bar brawls, and a secret to take to the grave.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Tony brings me to a shady punk bar on my seventeenth birthday, arming us with fake IDs and real jewelry in our safety pin piercings. My mom just about shat herself when she saw what I'd done to my nose. The ears were one thing, but even after I stretched them with screws from my stepdad's toolbox, it didn't even come close to how badly she'd flipped when she saw my left nostril with a tack poked through it.

She said she'd let me keep it if I didn't get a mohawk. It was a good compromise, because I didn't really want one anymore. Too typical, eurotrash punk. Instead, I have thick spikes all over my head. When I don't fix it up, it's just a curly mess, but the only people who have seen that are my parents and Tony. Tony, bless his soul, is a little bit stuck in 1979; he has a thick mohawk that, more often than not, he's too lazy to spike and instead lets it hang in a shaggy mess off the back of his head. When he does spike it, and when he wears his studded jean jacket, you'd think he's one of those kids who still listens to The Ramones. Which he does. But he doesn't tell anyone that, at least not anyone here. When people ask, he says he just likes the style. It's high-maintenance, but it looks badass, and nobody fucks with Tony.

It's raining in Los Angeles, but above the noise of the bar, it's impossible to tell. We got drenched on the way from the car to the door. It didn't help that we had to wait in line for a half an hour, but we were covered by the overhang, except for that time when it came in sideways for a good ten minutes. My t-shirt is damp and clinging to my torso. The bar is hot, though, and once I get some whiskey in me, I'll warm up.

Tony heads over to the counter, and I'm soon to follow. We're not drunks or burnouts or anything; we just like to have fun. We like to take advantage of the fact that we look twenty-one.

While I absently flash my ID to the bartender who asks, I look up to the stage. There's a group of sweaty guys yelping and shredding a cover of a song that sounds vaguely familiar. Nobody who plays here is big. This isn't even a venue. I don't mind, though. Some of the best music is the undiscovered kind.

About the time they finish off their set and I finally get my shot, I see him for the first time. The guy who's going to fuck me up. I don't know it yet; I don't even know him. But that's who he is. My goddamn demise.

When he first comes onstage, I have to do a double take because at first, I think he's a girl.

And at first, I double take because what the hell is a girl doing at a hardcore punk bar with a microphone? Girls can't scream. They can wail, but they can't growl.

Then something about this girl has me choking on my drink. She has balls. For real. I can see them through her skin-tight jeans. I look up to her face to get an eyeful of her eyebrow ridge and jawline and realize—oh. This is not a girl at all. This is a man.

But, come on, he must at _least_ be a queer.

Upon first glance, I deduce that this guy has no idea what he's doing. He has long hair like fucking Metallica. Clearly he didn't get the memo that if you're going to be seen as anything besides a douche, you've gotta lose the locks. But this guy—he probably thinks it's cool to have hair like Rapunzel. And that's not all. He's got these weird skin-tight pants I'm sure took a hell of a lot of effort to get on. Then there's the Ziggy Stardust logo jacket, which I only recognize because my brother's best friend's sister likes Bowie. And finally, the goddamn shoes. He's wearing prom shoes. Wedding shoes. Funeral shoes. Not the kind of thing you wear onstage to a bar. I'm not even sure how to interpret it. Is he some kind of secret yuppie who will only wear the best on his feet? Does he think it will make people respect him? Either way, it's fucking weird, and he is fucking weird.

To the right of the homo singer is a burly brown-skinned guy with a beat-up guitar and a curly mess on his head. He's wearing a coat. A _coat_. In Los Angeles, In May. Sure, it's raining, but with how big he is, shouldn't he be sweating from his body weight alone? In the back, there's a skinny kid behind a drum kit with spikes like mine, except they're bleached blonde and they look four times as haphazardly done. He has an obviously fresh piercing beneath his lower lip, and he looks like he thinks he could save the world with his drumsticks.

I have low expectations for this act between the prepubescent drummer, the giant mutt on a shitty Fender, and that he-she of a singer. Oh, it's going to be hellacious.

"How the hell are you, LA?" squeaks the frontman into the microphone in what is probably the most erratic, unreliable voice I've ever heard. "We're called Civil Fights, and we're here to make sure you have a good time tonight."

I snort and glance at Tony, but he's not looking at me. He's looking at the bodacious brunette on his right. Well, fuck him. 'Civil Fights' is just as laughable a name without him.

I turn away and divert my attention to getting another shot. It's a bit of a wait with all the other customers, so it's about the time the bartender actually gets to my order that I realize I'm tapping my foot. How long is this intro? I haven't heard any vocals yet, aside from that awkward spiel at the beginning. They're going on thirty to forty measures of just guitar and drums. Either they don't know what the hell they're doing, which I wouldn't put past them, or they're doing it on purpose. I wouldn't put that past them, either. I mean, come on: a scrawny Mexican guy with a microphone, an overweight, Samoan hippie-looking guitarist, and that squirrely kid with the drums? They're bound to come up with something weird, like mixing prog with hardcore.

Except, it's not really that bad.

I down my shot and pat Tony on the shoulder.

"Gonna go in with the crowd," I tell him. "You'd better pay for my shots."

"What?" he protests, finally pulling away from the lady he's trying to get horizontal with. I'm gone before he can say anything else, and the bartender will keep him there until he pays. Maybe it's a dick move, but I'm seventeen today. I'm allowed to be a dick.

I bump around in the crowd a little until the intro slows to a stop. God, finally. Like, it was good, but I want to hear this fag let out some whines. There's nothing like ridiculing a guy who thinks he can sing.

The drummer taps his sticks together four times, and the song comes in fast and loud, all three members starting their parts at once. What else comes in fast and loud is my jaw hitting the fucking floor. This guy…this guy has some lungs.

Actually, he's kind of badass, his voice harsh and shrill against the rapid-fire drums and aggressive guitar. If you were a yuppie or a preppie, you'd probably cringe. Me, though, I've got a racing heart hearing the way he wails and turns it into a long, low growl in one breath. One breath!

I think I'm in love.

Wait, I didn't—yeah, yeah, okay, maybe. _Maybe_ I happen to be a queer. But it's not something I go around advertising. I don't go to those rallies in San Francisco, even if I could get there. I just turn sluts away when they try to shove their 'ta-tas' in my face. They're lumps of fat. I don't see what the big deal is.

The big goddamn deal is how Civil Fights' singer jumps off an amp, grabs onto a rafter, and hooks his legs around it, hanging upside down and screaming a few words at us. By now, the crowd is getting excited by the energy and picking up the speed at which it's shifting. I don't hesitate to join. I said there's nothing like ridiculing a guy who thinks he can sing, but there's nothing like slam dancing to a song as fast as this.

By the time they're on their third song, I'm feeling the whiskey, plus the soreness of the few fists I've taken to my stomach and arms. It's not a bad kind of soreness, because it came from getting pummeled in the crowd. It's hard to give a damn about getting fists rammed into you when you're doing the same to the people around you. That's what's good about slam dancing; it's fighting, but it's respectful, and everyone has a good time throwing themselves.

I turn my head when a guy rams full-force into me while the song ends and the crowd slows.

"Watch it," he says, but he's laughing. Then we're both laughing, and both buzzed.

"Alright," says the singer into the microphone. His voice is deeper now that he's abused it and sweat plasters his smooth, curly hair to his forehead. It makes the homo part of me very happy. "We're giving out free t-shirts. Meet us after the show."

The guitarist opens his coat to reveal a white cotton t-shirt, the band's logo done very poorly in permanent marker. A few people call out insults, but it's lost beneath the drums coming back in. The drummer actually isn't bad, despite the fact that he looks about twelve. Then the music is back on, and I'm thrashing around to the singer's wild voice.

By the time their set ends, I'm sweaty and past worn out. My hair is still intact, but I got a few extra rips in my NOFX shirt. Not that it matters; it was basically trashed anyway. I let out a long breath and find my way back to the bar. I could do with another shot of whiskey.

A new bartender has started their shift, so I flash my ID again. He turns around to grab what I asked for, but then gets distracted and walks down to the other end of the bar. Asshole. This place has the worst service I've ever seen.

While I wait, I scan the mass of people to see where Tony is. He only gets in with the crowd when he's in a certain mood; usually, he just hangs back and watches the show. And with that chick he was talking to earlier, I'd bet that he's trying for at least second base with her and not wasting his time dancing around with a bunch of dudes. I finally spot him in the corner, pressed up against the same lady. She has her arms around his neck, and he's grabbing her waist while they swap spit. I guess I'll be paying for my own shots from now on.

I sigh and stare down the bartender while he pours a few shots. He flashes a 'one moment' sign to me, looking the opposite of apologetic, and taking someone else's order.

"Wastoid," I mutter while someone slips between me and the person on my right. As predicted, the bartender serves that dick first before finally getting me my shot. No goddamn tip for him. I down it and pay him exactly what I owe before walking back toward the crowd. I don't plan to do any more slam dancing considering I'm pretty beat. And anyway, the band that's on now isn't as good as Civil Fights, even if their name is less atrocious.

While I fold my arms and watch the show, I catch a glimpse of the skinny singer from earlier, chatting with some people while the drummer trails behind him like a lost puppy. He laughs and turns to his band mate, holding out his hand. The kid hands him a t-shirt, and he hands it to the chick he's talking to. I can't help but notice that he doesn't look nearly as interested in her as the kid does. And she is a _babe_ (hey, I don't like 'em, but I can call 'em). Maybe he really is a queer.

Not that I'd ever actually do anything if he was, no matter how impossible it is to shrug my attraction to him. I figure I'll end up hitched to some woman and start a family, just because that's what's expected of me. That, or I'll start a band like I've always wanted to do and be a lone wolf. The second sounds way more appealing, seeing as I wouldn't have to fend for any bratty children, and I wouldn't have to sleep with a woman to create said children. Of course, it would help if I had a decent guitar or some actual talent, since those are two things that are very helpful to get you on the road.

While Civil Fights' singer and drummer pass me, I can't help but call out, "Hey, good show!" I figure they'll just smile and say thank you, but oh, fuck, am I wrong.

The singer turns around to see me and splits a massive grin. He comes back over and claps me on the shoulder. "Really? Oh, dude, I'm glad you liked it! We get mostly bad responses, so it's cool that someone actually likes us."

"Oh. Uh, yeah," I shrug awkwardly, not really sure what to say. I'm saved by the drummer.

"Cool shirt," he tells me in a voice that is perfectly reminiscent of Tony's when he entered puberty. His voice _cracked_. He might actually be a kid.

I offer, "Thanks. You like NOFX?"

"Oh, yeah," he says enthusiastically. "Dude, how could you not? Like, the right amount of clean, and then the right amount of gritty. I own a few of their singles."

"God, Mike, quit geeking out," the frontman scolds. Then, he turns to me. "Don't mind him. He's a huge noid sometimes."

I chuckle. "It's fine. I'm a noid, too."

"Hmm, you don't look like a noid. You look like a total koozbane. In a good way, of course." He smiles and holds out his hand. "I'm Vic. Vic Fuentes."

I take his hand tentatively and he surprises me with a firm handshake.

"Jaime Preciado," I tell him as he releases my hand.

"Jaime. Cool. This is Mike." He gestures behind him to the kid, who raises a hand in a half-wave. "He's my brother."

"Ah," I nod. "That explains a lot."

Vic grins. "What, you couldn't figure out why he looks seven?"

"I'm not seven!" Mike pipes in, but his voice breaks comically on the last syllable. I chuckle, and he glares at me.

"Yeah," I admit. "I was wondering what a mall maggot was doing at a bar."

"I don't even like the mall," Mike protests.

"Mike, chill," Vic hisses. "He's joking." He turns to me. "Right?"

"Yeah, of course," I assure him. "You're pretty good at the drums, dude. I respect you."

Mike grumbles some more, but eases off, and Vic turns to me with a smile.

"Thanks for digging our show. It's easy to get discouraged when the only people who say they like it are chicks trying to get horizontal, you know? Nobody really likes the prog part of it."

"Hey man, it was cool," I reassure. "Definitely something new. And I think prog is up-and-coming."

Something changes then—Vic looks at me with these eyes—I can't decipher them. Some weird mixture of relief, adoration, and smugness. All I know is that they stir something up in my stomach and suddenly I want to do something really dumb like kiss him.

"You're cool," he says, his voice marginally lower than it was a second ago. I wouldn't notice if I weren't paying attention. "Do you smoke?"

"Smoke what?"

"Well, just cigarettes for now. Want to come out back with me while I light up? I haven't had one in a couple of days."

I shrug and say, "Sure, as long as you can spare me one," as if I don't really care, but I'll admit that I'm pretty pleased that Vic wants to smoke with me. He smiles faintly and grabs my arm, which startles me. Before I have time to react, he's pulling me behind the stage and out the back door, Mike tagging along behind us.

"You want the first drag?" he asks me once we're out in the cool air. Someone's tires squeal while I nod. It isn't raining anymore, but there's water pooled all over the cheaply-lain parking lot.

He pulls a thin case out of his pocket and opens it to reveal three rolled joints and a lighter. His brother sees and immediately clings to him.

"Not for you, Mike," Vic scolds.

Mike pouts. "Please?"

"No, dude. You're fourteen. Go call a hot eighth grader on the phone and brag about it for a week or something."

"Asshole," grumbles Mike, slinking away. "Not like you haven't seen me smoke before."

"Don't mind him," says Vic, selecting the one in the middle and grabbing the lighter.

"That was an elaborate suggestion you gave your brother just now," I note. Vic smirks.

"Yeah, that was an actual thing that happened." He twirls the cigarette between his fingers and says more quietly, "Mike called Amber Hills to ask for the math homework, and then he bragged to all his friends." He rolls his eyes and places the joint between my lips for me, making my stomach flip over when his knuckle brushes my lip. I pinch it between my teeth while he lights it.

"Kind of looks like a doobie," I comment after he's retracted his hand, a light puff of smoke escaping my lips despite how I try to hold it in.

"Yeah," he grins. "I roll them myself sometimes." He barks suddenly, "Mike!" I look over, and Mike is scraping something into the wall with a knife.

"What?" he asks in the most angsty-teenage voice I've ever heard.

"Go help Will with the instruments and stop vandalizing the wall. The owners hate us enough as it is."

"You're fucking road pizza," Mike complains. Vic just brushes him off, and then I hear the sound of the back door squeaking open and closing with a loud thud.

"Sorry," he laughs. "Mike kind of thinks he's a hessian or something, like he always has to do exactly what the police would hate him for."

"Maybe he's the Angry Samoans' apprentice," I remark. Vic thinks that funny and laughs heartily before plucking the cigarette out of my lips and putting it between his own.

"Angry fuckin' Samoans. I'd love them if their lyrics weren't so damn insulting."

"Yeah, they're Tony's favorite. It fits him."

Vic asks, "Who's Tony?" while he lets out a cloud of smoke. I tell him he's my best friend, and that he's the one who took me here tonight, and that's all we have to say about Tony because Vic is more interested in hearing about my favorite band. I tell him, 'Agent Orange.'

"Ah, that's cool. I've seen them play a couple of times. Have you?"

"Yeah, three or four."

"That's lucky. They're damn good, right?"

I nod, then ask him what his favorite band is.

"T.S.O.L.," he tells me before taking a drag. "I've seen them eight times and I got their album last week. It's lucky, 'cause I just discovered them last November, but they're, like, kind of new, so they haven't sold out or anything. They've played here a few times, and I actually met them last time, and...." He laughs. "Sorry. Kind of geeking out."

"It's okay," I assure him. "I saw them when they played here last time, actually. Guess I didn't notice you around."

"Oh, that's cool." He smiles shyly. "Shame I didn't meet you then."

It kind of makes my stomach flip over how he looks up at me through his eyelashes, and I find myself looking away after taking the cigarette back. His mood then goes from bashful to upbeat before I can even process, and he says, "Have you heard of Wasted Youth? Like, L.A.'s Wasted Youth?"

I scratch the back of my neck. "Uh...yeah, I think so. The other Wasted Youth is British, right?"

"Yep. I think the British one is technically better, but L.A. is good too. I saw them last week."

"That's cool. How were they?"

"Really good, besides the fact that they're complete divas."

"Totally," I grin.

"Have you ever met them?"

I shake my head. "Nah. I think they might try to kill me; I'd probably piss them off."

"Yeah, they're pretty good at the whole pissy-anarchist thing," he notes. "Even if they're not as bad as Samoans or Circle Jerks."

We talk about local bands for awhile until the cigarette is gone and he throws it on the ground. It's damp enough that he doesn't even need to stub it out.

"Do you want to go up to the roof?" he asks me. I frown warily at the sky—dark, in a way that lets you know it could split open and take a piss on you at any moment. He sees me hesitate and instantly underpins his statement. "It won't rain again. And if it does, there's shelter. Trust me, I go up there all the time with my hippie friend, Chris. He gets gigs here early in the evening, and between his and mine, sometimes we'll light up. 'Course, I don't do that often. It's a bitch for my throat."

Vic realizes, for the second time, that he's running his mouth, and shuts up with a sheepish smile. He takes my silence as agreement, and gestures with his head to the fire escape. The building is three floors; the first is the bar, the second is storage, and the third is living space, probably for whatever lowlife runs the tavern. I follow Vic as we quickly ascend, making as little noise as possible when we pass the windows. We have to climb up on the last part; he does so expertly, whereas I nearly fall on my ass. Vic pretends he doesn't notice, which I'm grateful for.

There are some people who touch you shamelessly without having a reason to. I have a little cousin named Jésus who will sit in the middle seat of the car even if you're the only two in the back. Everyone knows at least one of those people. You don't ask questions unless you've got issues. You let them get their human contact fix. Once we're leaned up against some sort of metal contraption, I learn that Vic is one of those people.

He has a new cigarette and the lighter in his grip, the case tucked safely away in his pocket. I sit first. He sits second, letting our knees touch and not caring if our arms brush or if his hair falls on my shoulder while he leans down to shield the flame from the wind. I can't decide if I mind. I'm alert, I know that. Vic's knee is touching me. It's definitely touching me.

Once the cigarette is properly lit, he tucks the lighter away and gives me a friendly smile.

"I'm surprised you wanted to hang out with me."

"Really?" I ask in astonishment. "Why?"

He shrugs. "I don't know. You seemed kind of angry at first, you know? But I think you're actually a secret nice guy."

"I'm not nice," I scoff jokingly. "I'm the meanest cornchip on this roof."

"Alright, maybe that's true," he laughs. "But I bet you're the type to save kittens from trees."

"Except I'm allergic to cats."

He passes me the cigarette. "Okay, wise-ass, no need to get snarky with me."

"Maybe I _am_ the nice one," I grin. Vic grins back while he waits for his turn on the tobacco. Briefly, his gaze flicks over me; I'm not sure what to make of it, so I think little of it and ignore my racing heart. Duh, I think Vic is hot. But thoughts like that won't get me anywhere but ass-kicking city. Half the punks in L.A. beat up faggots on a regular basis, either to take their cash or just for the hell of it. It's way smarter to take it easy on the whole homo thing.

"You did that piercing yourself, right?" Vic asks me, pointing to the stud in my nose.

"Uh-huh," I confirm. "Why, is it obvious?"

"Nah," he laughs. "Just most people think the DIY thing is badass. What did you use?"

"A tack."

"Mondo. I used a safety pin for mine." Absentmindedly, he touches the ring through his nose, which mirrors mine. "Actually, Will did it. My guitarist, did I tell you? Yeah, he wants to be a piercer-slash-tattooer if our band doesn't work out."

"Is he good?"

"With piercing, yeah. But he gave Mike the shittiest tat last month. It's, like, under his armpit and it's the anarchy symbol, but it kind of looks like a cartoon eyeball or something. So bad." He shudders. "Anyway, if you ever wanted something else done, he's your man."

"Really? Cool, do you think he'd do my eyebrow?"

Vic smiles encouragingly. "Yeah, dude, that would be gnarly."

I snort. "Gnarly? Are you a surfer or something?" I ask while we exchange the cigarette again. Vic laughs at that.

"No, sorry, I picked up that word from my friend Alan. He's, like, a surfer, but also a burnout, so it's weird."

I note, "You must have a lot of friends." Vic shrugs.

"I guess. Some of them probably couldn't even be considered friends anymore, since I haven't talked to them for awhile. Mostly, there's just Will, Chris, Alan, Jason, Tyler, and Jen."

I chuckle in disbelief. "That's still a shitload more than I have."

"Well, friends are exhausting, so be grateful," he advises me. Since I'm not much of a social butterfly, I agree with him.

Vic and I chat for awhile. Police sirens wail in the distance, and the other sounds of the city provide a backdrop for our conversation. I learn that he's only owned one pair of shoes since last year, hence the overdressed state of his feet. He tells me he just hasn't gotten around to buying something less out-of-place, and most people don't give a fuck about shoes anyway unless they're gay. I laugh to myself about that since his shoes were one of the first things I noticed about him, which proves his point on the gay thing. I ask about his life. He tells me about it, earnestly. Vic Fuentes is definitely a talker.

It's when we agree that we need a new cigarette that things start to get interesting.

"Alright, smoking is bad for you, so this is the last of the night," he grins at me as he passes me the fresh joint after pulling it out of his pocket. I suck down hard, letting it creep closer to the filter, then pass it to my right. I hold in the breath as long as I can, and then the puff of smoke escapes in a cloud from my lungs and dissipates into the air. I can feel Vic's gaze on me. I'd be lying if I said it didn't put me on edge. It's a good kind of edge, though. I'm not sure why, but it's exciting to be sitting here with such bodacious boy, even if I'm ninety percent certain nothing will happen. I mean, sure, he looks gay, but that doesn't mean he is. And even if he were, that doesn't mean he likes me like that. Gay guys are picky, just like everyone else. Someone as utterly ace and talented as Vic is bound to have high standards. And that's okay.

"So," he says after a moment. "Tell me about yourself, Jaime...what was it? P-something?"

"Preciado," I grin, not looking at him, but enjoying his gaze on my face. "I dunno. I'm not that interesting. Lived in L.A. my whole life. Parents hardly speak English, although my stepdad is your average white yuppie piece of shit. I used to want to be an astronaut. That stopped when I was twelve and I first heard The Ramones." I scratch the back of my head. "Um, Tony and I met at school when I was eleven 'cause he moved in from Santa Barbara. We learned guitar when we were thirteen, and tried to start a band at fifteen, but turns out we suck." I shrug. "That's about it."

"Guitar is hard," he admits. "I play, but really only for writing shit. It's much more fun to be onstage with only a microphone, you know? I get crazy sometimes."

"Your energy was really cool," I tell him. He peeks up at me while he smiles, and says nothing save for a small 'thanks' for a few passes. Then, he speaks up again.

"I've got a question for you."

"Shoot."

"Is Tony really your best friend or is he your boyfriend?"

My heart leaps to my throat. "B-boyfriend? Why the hell would he be my boyfriend?"

He gives me a look verging on patronizing. "Jaime, you're obviously gay."

"What?" I laugh incredulously. "I-I'm not a faggot."

"Uh huh," he smirks. "Well, either you're lying, or you're waist-deep in denial. Which is it?"

"Dude, I said I'm not a queer," I reinforce desperately. Vic just chuckles.

"Take a chill pill. I'm gay too."

Hearing that as good as knocks me to the ground. Vic is...gay? I mean, I wondered, even hoped, but...no way. No God, even one I only half-believe in, would ever let me meet another gay person. Not one as mad freak as Vic.

"You," I declare, "are messing with me."

"Well, be grateful it's me and not some skinhead who figured you out," he retorts. "Why would I lie about being gay? How do you think I have such a good gaydar?"

"Gaydar?"

"You know, like radar."

"Oh."

Vic laughs. "So is Tony your boyfriend or not?"

"God, no," I shudder. After a second, I add, "And I never said I was gay."

"But you are, aren't you?"

I shrug sheepishly. "Maybe, yeah."

Vic smiles triumphantly. "I goddamn called it."

"Well, at least I don't look as gay as you."

"Tell me something I don't know, sweetheart."

Despite it being a joke, when Vic calls me 'sweetheart,' I blush a little. By now, I'm feeling brave enough to look at him, so I do. For once, he's looking straight ahead. Our shoulders and thighs are still touching. He's not grinning, exactly, but he looks content, almost satisfied. It can't be that cold, but it feels like it to our SoCal blood, so his cheeks are red with life and his lips look plump and smooth. Maybe I want to kiss him. I won't do it, but I want to.

There's a settling silence for a few moments. A few moments and he asks, "Have you ever done anything with a guy?"

It's a surprising question, one I've never been asked before, and I find myself avoiding eye contact, avoiding answering and instead responding, "Have you?"

Vic takes his time on a pull of the cigarette before sending the smoke out in a jet from his lips. Then, he says simply, "Yep."

He's still not looking at me. What's more is that he gave me a one-word response. The chatterbox saying something so vague is astounding, and I prod, "Like what?" He half-smiles at me and takes another drag.

"I...," he hums, "have kissed a boy. I have gone down on a boy. I have fucked a boy. I have gotten fucked by a boy."

"Was it all the same one?" I can't help but ask.

"Nope. Kissed three. Blew and fucked one. Got fucked by two others."

"Hmm." It seems strange to think that there are other gay people. That not everybody would be disgusted by a dick touching a dick. The fact that Vic was able to find what sounds like five or six gay boys is even more astounding.

And then I realize what he's done, and I imagine him on his knees, looking up at me with wide, innocent eyes and one hand on my thigh; the other hand, well....

"What about you, Himes?" he asks, pulling me out of my daydream and eliciting a blush on my cheeks. Nope, I was not just thinking about Vic blowing me. If he could read minds, I'd be fucked.

Once I can manage to process his question, my stomach flips over at the nickname, then flips back at what he asked me. No one likes to admit they're a virgin. I divulge, "I haven't done much besides making out with a few girls."

"Girls, huh?" he snickers. "Let me guess: Little Jaime wasn't up for it?"

"Do you have to call my penis that?" I groan, but I have a chuckle threatening to escape my lips just because he's cute. He smiles inoffensively and boasts, "I'm right, though, aren't I?"

I shrug, "Maybe," turning away to draw less attention to the burn on my cheeks. Vic bumps his knee into mine.

"It's alright. I tried to have sex with a girl once. Not only did I not get hard; I almost vomited."

I sputter out a laugh. "You almost vomited?" He grins in a weirdly proud way.

"Yeah, turns out their genitals look like nightmare shit."

"You're afraid of vaginas?"

"Didn't the fact that I'm flaming tip you off?"

Daringly, I pluck the cigarette from between his fingers while I tell him, "I didn't think you were flaming. You could pass as straight."

"Please, Jaime. I was eye-fucking you from the moment I saw you."

He takes the cigarette back; it's dwindling by now, and after he brings it to his lips and sucks out the last of it, he stubs it on the ground and flicks it away. I'm acutely aware of his warmth next to me compared to the chilly, fresh-after-rain feeling on my left. I'm acutely aware of his hair spilling onto his shoulder and mine. I'm acutely aware of what the hell he just said to me, and how it makes me want to squeal like a valley girl.

"You're awful at taking compliments," he notes. "I basically invited you to kiss me and you're just sitting there."

My jaw practically drops. "You...you want to kiss me?"

He laughs. "Duh. This isn't some shitty romance novel. I'm not about to compare thee to a summer's day."

"Sorry, I just...this is new."

He turns toward me and grins, bringing a hand up to my cheek. "You talk too much."

And then I have a pair of full, soft lips gingerly pressing against my mouth.

After I get over the shock, I realize that this is real, and Vic is kissing me, and a _boy_ is kissing me, and I'm supposed to kiss back. So I inelegantly reach for his neck and reciprocate the mouthwork.

It's brief, but it warms my insides, and Vic pulls back and says softly, "I think I like this."

And before I can say anything to make it awkward, he leans back in and kisses me a little harder—still gently, though. Just as he drags his tongue across my lower lip, a voice from the ground calls his name, and he detaches from me with a sigh.

"It's Will," he says apologetically, letting his fingers graze my cheek as he lets go of my face. "I've got to go."

"You sure?" I breathe, desperately wanting to reconnect our lips. He chuckles quietly.

"Unfortunately, yes. Can't make out all night, as much fun as that would be."

"Can I see you again?" I ask, knowing full-well that I sound desperate, but hell, it's not every day I meet a stunning guy who wants to kiss me.

Vic laughs a little and responds, "Sure. I have a gig here in four days. You want to meet me afterwards?"

"Okay." He stands up and stretches, his tight-fitting shirt riding up just slightly and revealing an expanse of smooth, tanned skin above his waistline. Then, he starts for the fire escape. Just as he begins to descend it, I blurt out, "It's my birthday." I don't have a reason for saying it, I just do. Vic takes it casually.

"Mondo. Happy birthday. How old are you?"

I lie, "Eighteen."

"Barely legal, huh? I'm twenty." He smiles one last time before saying, "Later, Jaime."

I'm a second too late when I reply, "Bye, Vic."

It's cold when he's gone. I hear his voice, muted slightly, utter a few things on the ground to Will until a loud car starts and he drives away.

Vic. Vic Fuentes.

I goddamn kissed him.


	2. Chapter 2

"Jaime Alberto Preciado," calls my stepdad from downstairs. "Get down here!"

I sigh and turn off my record player. I won it last month after betting Cal Ferris I could go a whole school day high off a bean without getting caught. Sure, I failed my math test, but the record player also takes cassette tapes. I'd say it's worth it.

My full name is something my stepdad uses a lot, and it never gets less annoying. Like, he's not the one who named me. Alberto is my grandfather's name on my _dad's_ side. I guess Richard only calls me by my full name when I'm in trouble, though, so it'd be dumb of me to complain. Still, he could call me 'Jaime' or 'Homefry' or 'Housewarming Gift' and I'd still be in the same amount of trouble every time. So yeah, Rick, get bent.

I slip on a hoodie to hide the bruises on my arms from slam dancing and zip down the stairs. Despite being two floors, our house is tiny. The upstairs has a cramped bathroom, a claustrophobic bedroom, and a slightly less claustrophobic master bedroom. There's something that resembles a closet, too, but it's stuffed with the washer and dryer and is small enough that they still jut out halfway. As for the downstairs, things don't get much better. You can't have the fridge and the oven or dishwasher open at the same time. Dining room? Nonexistent. There is a bathroom, but you can't fit inside it if you're over two hundred pounds. We don't have people over much for fear they'll realize we're poor.

Richard Holden, my stepfather, is a tall, skinny, blonde white man with thinning hair and tiny hands. He couldn't be scary if he tried. He works for an insurance company but is too much of a pussy to ever get a promotion, which means that he and my mom will probably be stuck living in this piece of shit house forever. Like most yuppie parents, he's scared out of his skull when it comes to punks. He punishes me, sure, and I can't do shit about it, but when I talk back, his voice shakes and his face gets red. Like I said, pussy.

Once I'm downstairs, I find my mom sitting trimly on the couch with her ankles crossed and her hands folded on her lap. She doesn't speak much English, but my Spanish is awful, so Richard tends to be her mouthpiece. I find that funny. Richard doesn't know any Spanish besides 'gracias' and 'de nada.' Maybe that's why their relationship works so well.

Richard is standing next to her with his arms folded and a piece of paper in his hand.

"Jaime, is there anything you want to tell your mother and me?" he asks in his authoritative voice, which is nasally and weak. I shrug, since I've done plenty of shit and I could be in trouble for any of it.

Richard pinches the bridge of his nose for a brief second, then drops his hands to his sides. "Jaime, I got a telephone call from the principal of your school." That explains the paper. He takes notes on his phone conversations. "He says he's concerned about your grade in Geometry. You want to tell us what you have?"

"What's the point in me saying it?" I retort. "You already know, don't you?"

On cue, his voice quivers when he responds. "There's no room for back talk from someone who has an F."

I sigh and scratch my forehead tiredly. "Okay, yeah, I have an F. Sorry. Math is hard. Can I go now?"

"This won't go unpunished, young man. The year is almost over and I won't have someone under my roof trying to slide out of his junior year with a mark so unforgiving. You know this seriously harms your chances of getting into a good college, right? I want to hear that you'll do everything in your power to get this back up to at least a C."

"Sure," I wave him off. "Yeah, I'll handle it."

I start to turn around to return to my room, but he stops me.

"I'm not finished with you, Jaime." He glances at the paper in his hand. "He also said that there was an altercation in physical education between you and another boy. Is this true?"

I sigh and crack my knuckles. "Gary was talking shit— " 

"Watch your language. There's a lady in this house."

I roll my eyes. Like my mom knows what 'shit' means. Ever since I started going to school and losing my Spanish, she's too lazy to learn to talk to me, let alone waste her time with English curse words. 

"Gary was bagging on me and Tony to his stupid little gang during kickball, so I chucked it at his head. Not even that hard. And then in the locker rooms, he got pissed and went totally house on me and so we fought. It wasn't even a big deal."

Richard exhales testily. "Jaime, getting into fights is a very serious matter. I am not happy to hear about this." Then, he launches into a spiel about responsibility and 'being the bigger man,' which I only half-listen to. Like Richard would understand why I had to fight Gary.

"You agree with me, right?" he finishes. I nod, not sure exactly what I'm agreeing with but figuring it safer to go along with it. Richard grunts, seeming pretty self-satisfied with his little speech. "As a punishment for both the fighting and the poor grade, you're grounded until you can get yourself up to a C-average."

I agree without protesting since there's no way being grounded will stop me from getting out. Pretty soon after that, he lets me go back upstairs.

I shed my hoodie, and my shirt while I'm at it, and plop down on my bed. Since it's Friday, I don't have to worry about getting to sleep so that I don't doze off in class, so I just lie there. It's not that late, only six, but my mom and stepdad go to bed around seven so that they can be up early for work. My mom works at some kind of bilingual bakery, and Richard has a second janitorial job for his company. You'd think three jobs would be enough to get us a house that isn't small enough to wear, but you'd be wrong.

After about fifteen minutes, I remember that I could listen to music and pop in some T.S.O.L. Vic's favorite.

I'm seeing him tomorrow after his show. And, like, I'm not in love with him or anything, but I'm crushing on him big time. Excuse me for wanting to listen to his favorite band, just to see if I can hear what he likes about them. T.S.O.L. is good. Pretty atypical, but good. I'd bet he can see something special in the sound.

God, I should at least _try_ to be less gay. Once the record is over, I do The Vandals' album and listen for the sound of mom and Richard's door closing. Just past seven, I hear, "Goodnight, Juanita," and figure it safe to slide open my window and fish for a spare cigarette in the bottom of my nightstand. I got rid of the screen a long time ago. The rain is back, so I don't let the lit tobacco too far out the window, but let my hair get wet. I took a shower after school, and I have a frizzy mess on my head instead of my usual spikes, so the water isn't unwelcome. 

I know smoking is very, very bad. Tony and I tried our first cigarettes at thirteen and kept at it just because we thought it made us badass. Now, I'm addicted. I only need one a day, though. I only do extras on special occasions. Maybe I'll quit when I'm twenty-five or thirty.

What I should be doing now is math homework. I have an F because I don't know how the hell to do any of the problems Mr. Petrie assigns us. Geometry is bogus. It's my last year of math, though, so I really shouldn't fail it. Maybe I'll pay for some test answers and homework; if I make it look like I hauled ass to turn in late work, I could probably scrape by with a C. I actually don't want to drop out of high school. I'm not stupid. I know it's impossible for a high school dropout to get a decent job. And yeah, I _want_ to start a band and tour and make money that way, but I know it's not realistic. Punk bands make very little money, unless you're big.

I finish the cigarette off, stub it out and let it cool, then put it at the bottom of my trash can and cover it with some papers. Once I've gotten rid of the evidence, I hang by the window long enough for the smell of smoke to waft away from my clothes. On a night like tonight, there's nothing I feel like doing. Tony is on a date. No one good is playing. And since I'm relaxed from my cigarette, I decide that now's an okay time to get ready to go to bed.

I fall asleep in my darkened room to the crackling of a Black Flag record. Life is okay. 

* * *

 I'm pretty good at keeping secrets.

The risky one is my age. As far as my ID goes, I'm twenty-two. That's usually what I tell people, unless I trust them enough. See, I would tell Vic I'm seventeen, but I kind of want him to bang me, and I'm not sure he'd do that what with me not being legal and all. So eighteen won't do any harm.

Then there's the whole gay thing—which is not something I tend to shout from the rooftops, although I did technically say it up there this week. Tony knows I'm seventeen, and Vic knows I'm a queer. It's not that hard of a secret to keep. I just have to make out with chicks occasionally and claim I'm more interested in writing shitty guitar riffs the rest of the time. Most people are none the wiser. In fact, my parents worry that I'm having unprotected sex all over the place and getting half the city pregnant. I'll admit it's a little flattering that they think me capable of that. Los Angeles is a big place.

I have plenty of other secrets. My parents don't know I smoke out my window. My teachers don't know I cheated on my history exam last year. The police don't know I have a habit of shoplifting cassette tapes whenever I can get away with it. But on May twenty-sixth, Vic goddamn Fuentes wants to know everything.

"You want to play what?" I ask incredulously.

"Truth or dare," he shrugs. "It's fun."

"Are you sure you don't have a secret vagina?"

He laughs and bumps my shoulder. We're sitting in the same place we were yesterday, up against the same metal structure, our shoulders and legs comfortably pressed up against each other. The sky is clear tonight; the last of the storm clouds passed yesterday afternoon, and the air is trying to move from muggy to crisp.

"Pretty sure I have a penis, dickweed," he says teasingly. "It's just fun. It passes the time."

I sigh. "Well, I guess so."

He grins in triumph and shifts so that he's sitting Indian-style facing me. When I take too long in mirroring him, he reaches for my hands and pulls me into position.

"Alright," he says, his cheeks round and full with his smile. "Truth or dare?"

I can't believe Vic wants to play this. He's twenty, for God's sake. Most people I know over sixteen leave that shit to the middle schoolers. I guess, though, it's kind of a guilty pleasure for a lot of people. Yeah, it _sounds_ like a total valley girl game, but it's fun.

I shrug, "Truth, I guess."

He ponders for a moment, then asks me, "How often do you jack off?"

I can't even fight the blush that overtakes my face while I tell him, "Um...like, once a week, maybe?"

"Really?! Damn. I wank, like, every other night."

"Wow, you're fucking gross," I taunt. Vic just snickers.

"Oh, sure. Yeah, I bet you'd love to watch me in the shower."

I mumble, "Maybe I would," and to my surprise, it seems to discomfit Vic. He just softly prods, "Your turn to ask me."

A flustered Vic is damn cute, but I don't comment on it and simply ask him, "Truth or dare?"

"Dare," he says instantly. I hum.

"Uh...I don't know. I...dare you...to give me a cigarette."

"What?! Freakin' cheap!" He slides a pack out of his pocket.

"Sorry," I shrug. "I'm out of cigs."

"Well, I would've given you one anyway, you bogart. Thanks for wasting a perfectly good dare opportunity."

I just smile sheepishly while he slides me a stick of tobacco. I pocket it for later.

"Alright, scumbag, truth or dare?"

"I'll do dare this time," I shrug, ignoring his insult. Vic purses his lips for a moment, then stands up.

"Where are you going?" I ask. He says nothing, peeking over the front edge of the bar before returning with a mischievous smile.

"There's a biker hanging out by the door with a handlebar mustache. I dare you to spit on him."

"What the hell?" I protest as he plops down across from me.

"You've gotta do it or else you lose."

"Yeah, but I might _die_."

"Well, then you'd better be sneaky about it."

It's clear Vic isn't going to budge, so I lumber over to the ledge and lean my head over. As promised, there's a thick, muscley guy who probably could've been a clydesdale in high school but is far too weathered now to be anything besides a freaky biker dude. He's bald, but has a sandy blonde mustache and heavy arm hair over his veins and snake-and-dagger tattoo. Yeah, if he sees me, I'm dead.

God, this is stupid. I'll admit, though, it's a pretty genius dare.

I poise myself, ready to scramble away from the edge, before wadding up a ball of spit in my mouth and shooting it down to plop on the biker's shiny head. I see the impact, then jet just in time to hear a throaty 'What the hell?!'

I snort, my heart racing as I slide back down to sit next to Vic, who's poorly stifling a laugh by covering his mouth with his hands.

"If I fucking die...." I trail off, shaking my head at him. There's an obvious commotion down by the entrance.

"Some goddamned _punk_ in that goddamned _shithole_ just _spit_ on me!"

"Dale, you ever heard'a rain?"

"Shut yer damn trap, Sisky. What do you take me for, a retard? I know what's rain and what's tongue piss. Now lemme att'em."

"You start one more fight, Dale, and Joe'll blacklist ya."

"You think Joe scares me? He's a goddamned pussy. I mention the Skinjackers and he quakes in his boots."

"What, yer little knitting circle? You know Joe's roommate was the one who beat up Andrew."

Soon, Dale gets more riled up about the knitting circle comment and it's clear he'd rather teach Sisky a lesson about being smart than hunt down whichever punk spat on his big, shiny head.

When I'm sure I'm safe, I let out a breath of relief and glare playfully at Vic. He just winks and says quietly, "Good boy. Now you ask me."

I sigh, forgetting the meaty asshole by the door, and crack my neck. "Truth or dare?"

"Since you did dare, I'll do truth."

"Are you going to tell me what's up with the Ziggy Stardust jacket?" 

It's black leather with a small blue and red lightning bolt on the front breast pocket and a larger one on the back. While he may be a respectable musician, David Bowie is by no means punk. Vic looks half-guilty, half-earnest at my question.

"I, uh...." He laughs. "Well, no one has ever recognized it before, so kudos to you. I just...I don't know. I have a thing for Bowie, especially Stardust. Musically and otherwise."

I raise my eyebrows. "What do you mean by otherwise?"

His cheeks redden a little, but he plays it off. "Oh, you know. I have the hots for him. In high school, I had a poster of him on my ceiling." He shrugs. "His junk is huge."

I laugh a little; Vic seems embarrassed, so I decide now's as good a time as any to pull out my cigarette. After lighting it, I offer it to him so that he can take the first drag. Gratefully, he takes it from me and inhales deeply. Bowie and huge junk; I've never noticed. Then again, maybe the spandex makes it seem bigger than it is.

"You know what I like about him?" says Vic tranquilly. "He's got a great story. Have you heard it?"

I shake my head and Vic takes another drag before launching into his lesson.

"Well, he's from the U.K., obviously. Went to a Catholic school and sang in the choir. His teachers said his voice was average. Nothing special." Vic grins. "I goddamn love that. You know how hard it is to get noticed when you're nothing special? He did it, somehow. I mean, he's talented to all hell as far as songwriting goes, and plus, he's always a character. Just...I don't know. He knew music was his passion. That's all he ever wanted to do."

It's interesting to see Vic's yearning expression, how he's obviously so passionate and inspired by someone most punks would call a sellout. And I respect Bowie. He knows his shit. Still, I can't help but say to Vic, "You're weird."

Vic laughs. "I'm weird? How so?"

"Well, in a good way," I clarify. "No one in this scene would normally admit to liking Bowie; like, honestly, most punks are assholes. It's cool. That you're not afraid to like pop music, I mean."

"Well," he shrugs, "it's not like I go around advertising it."

"What, your jacket doesn't count as advertising?"

He chuckles. "Touché." After another pull on the cigarette, he adds, "You know, I don't like most pop music. I don't even really like rock-n-roll. I'm your average punk, aside from my David Bowie fetish."

"That's good. You should just like what you like."

He smiles at me, warming my insides.

"He used to be gay," Vic tells me, finally handing the cigarette back. "Bowie, I mean. When he was Ziggy. He changed his mind and said he was bisexual afterwards, and I heard rumors he's going for straight now."

I can't say I've ever been particularly interested with any gay celebrities, so I don't have much to offer in response. Thankfully, Vic always seems to have something to say, so it's not long before he's telling me about Mike getting caught smoking in the bathroom during Pre-Algebra, and then reminding me that we have to get back to our game, as if I was the one ranting about Will's horrible amp. I don't mind that he blames me, since he was half-joking anyway, and I probably wouldn't mind if he asked if he could borrow my kidney for the weekend. Vic is warm. It's impossible to be anything but upbeat around him; it's impossible not to want to do everything he asks.

We work the one cigarette until it's gone, exchanging petty secrets and performing mildly embarrassing or dangerous acts. For a game of truth or dare, we keep it pretty clean, unlike how the jocks and valley girls operate. That much makes sense. Vic is twenty; he's not some hormonal teenager who wants to look at a naked person whenever he can; he's not a gossip-ridden bimbette who needs to know who likes who and who got into whose chonies. All we're doing is passing the time and getting to know each other. And despite the relative innocence, it's fun. But maybe that's just because I'm majorly crushing on the dude I'm playing with.

It's when the cigarette is long-gone and I'm starting to crave another one that I think things are about to get heavy.

"Truth or dare?" asks Vic. I pick truth, since the last time I chose dare, he made me climb down the stairs and try scamming one of the chicks waiting to get into the bar. The worst part is that she actually seemed kinda into it. Vic thinks for awhile, looking like he's working up the courage to ask something. He's sitting indian-style across from me with his arms propping him up behind him and his head leaned up at the sky. His hair torrents down his back. looking thick and full and swaying with the light breeze. I want to run my fingers through it, but I suppress the urge.

Vic looks back up at me with a sad smile. "Have you ever broken a heart?"

It's a far more putt question than we've been dealing with, but it's easy enough to say, "No." I have never broken a heart. Not that I know of, anyway. Sure, there are a few fake skeezers from school who try to get with me just to be edgy, but no one has ever loved me. I've never let anyone.

And then I look at Vic. He seems curious, sure, but there's an underlying palette of guilt on his features. Once I manage to detect it, I get nervous. Vic is guilty. Of what? Well, the smart bet would be on breaking a heart. And in itself, that's not a sin. I just can't fathom what about it makes him seem so ashamed. It'd have to be something bad, right? But Vic is such a sweet guy. Like, I don't know him _that_ well, but I could never imagine his friendly, upbeat demeanor squashing someone's love on purpose. It'd have to be an accidental thing.

But then, why does he look so damn guilty?

"Have you?" I ask, concealing the accusatory edge in my voice. Despite his unease, Vic brushes me off seamlessly.

"Nice try, amigo. You've gotta ask me truth or dare."

I sigh, but say, "Truth or dare?" anyway. Vic smiles smugly.

"Dare."

"I dare you to tell me about the heart you broke."

"Uh-uh," he protests. "That's cheating. I'm skipping you."

"What?!"

"Truth or dare?" he smirks. I huff.

"You little shit. Fine. Dare."

"I dare you to kiss me."

It catches me off guard. I had almost forgotten that he and I kissed last time. Not that it's a forgettable thing; it's just hard to imagine him liking me how I like him when he's so entertaining and passionate and out of my league. I've gotten into the mindset that we're just two buddies hanging out, subconsciously knowing he's gay too but not really fixating on that fact. Friends. I mean, I like him, for sure. I just can't seem to bring my self-esteem up to the point where him liking me back is anything short of unbelievable.

Him climbing onto my lap catches me off guard too. Gently, he grabs my face, but hovers in front of me, waiting for me to make the move since I'm the one who's supposed to kiss him. His heart-stomping endeavors are forgotten when I feel his breath on my face. Eagerly, I close the distance.

His lips are soft and faintly spicy. Almost immediately, he laps at my mouth, and my insides shudder and crumble. Kissing Vic is damn nice. My hands in his hair; his legs around my waist; goddamn, I could do this all day. Truth or dare can kick rocks. This is five thousand times better.

It carries on long enough for me to get half-hard. Then, he pulls away from me with a wet slurp, giggling slightly and pulling up his sleeve to check his watch. Thankfully, he doesn't comment on the fact that I'm turned on and he isn't. Not that I was paying attention to his dick. Like, okay, maybe a little, but in my defense, it was touching _my_ dick, and that's hard not to notice.

"What time is it?" I ask. He smiles sadly at me.

"Just past one. I really should go."

I hold back a discontented whine and instead nod. "We're meeting up again, right?"

"Duh," he snorts. "Is the first of June good?"

"Should be. Same time, same place?"

"Mhmm."

He pecks my lips once, then dives back in for a more persisting kiss. "I'll see you, Jaime."

"Yeah," I breathe. "See you, Vic."

With one final smile, he climbs off of me and traipses over to the fire escape. I catch a wink, and then he's gone.

All in all, it's a pretty fucking great night. Vic, secrets, dares, and tongue. I don't know what it is about him that's got me so sprung; I just know that I am. It might help that I have more of a chance with him than I'd have with, say, Joey Thomas from fourth period who stares relentlessly at girls' tits. Vic, I think it's safe to say, would rather suck on my penis than Marilyn Monroe's vagina. And hey, maybe my mind finds that attractive. But he's also playful and driven and talented and friendly, not to mention gorgeous.

Yeah, I'm whipped.

It's not until I get home that something starts to bother me.

Vic definitely broke a heart. What happened that made it so bad that he didn't want to tell me about it?


	3. Chapter 3

I don't forget about Vic's guilty conscience; not because I don't trust him, but because I want to know what I'm up against. Still, I don't work up the courage to ask about it until much later. One night when we're due to meet, I promise myself to get it out of him.

I'd like to say that I've gotten to know every little detail about Vic; his quirks, his secret desires, his favorite color or animal or food; but frankly, there hasn't been a lot of romance. Up until this point, we've just been progressively making out more and more.

That doesn't mean I don't feel something for him, because God, I do. I'm like a goddamn girl with the way I daydream in class about sneaking out my window, borrowing Tony's car, and driving to the same old bar just to climb up on the roof and kiss Vic, to hear his startling optimism and occasional shitty jokes. Tony thinks I have a thing for Kelly Travis, who sits in front of me in Chemistry. I let him think it. It won't hurt anybody if I pretend to look at her rack when I'm actually thinking of Vic's slender waist or those damn wide, brown eyes.

We always meet in the same place. His gigs end at eleven; he smokes outside until I get there at eleven-fifteen and we climb up together to light up, get high, talk, or just kiss. He always wears the Ziggy Stardust jacket even though I embarrassed him about it before. Sometimes he has a beanie fitting snugly on his head; sometimes he wears cutoff shorts instead of his usual absurdly-tight jeans. Almost always, he wears the dress shoes, but last time he borrowed Mike's combat boots and he looked damn hot. Can shoes make someone hot? Well, they certainly did him wonders. It was a change from his usual half-punk half-pussy getup to full-on badass; aside from the Bowie logo, of course.

I hate to say it, but I might be falling in love. When I met Vic, I was drawn to him, obviously. My initial impression was that this kid has no idea what the hell he's doing. Then, I heard his voice. That was step one. The aggression and desperation of it while he sang; it made my blood pump violently through my veins; it shot me with adrenaline. I thought, okay, maybe he's not clueless. He's damn strange, but he must know it. It's weird to think that almost a month ago, I hadn't met him yet, but I thrashed around to his voice.

Step two was speaking to him. It was the enthusiasm that surprised me. He wasn't like every other punk kid in L.A. with half-assed angst and an unhealthy love of Black Flag. He didn't want to make music just to get some anarchic words into the air or impress his friends. When I met Vic, I realized that that's just who he is. Who else would be passionate enough to stomach singing and yelping and wailing and growling against his fourteen-year-old brother's jittery drum beats? The fact that it actually sounds good makes it better. Nobody can deny that Vic was put here to write music and shove it onto the airwaves in the loudest way possible.

The first night, I went home with a dull throb on my skin from the slam dancing bruises and one in the pit of my stomach because I wasn't ready for Vic to leave yet. I just wanted him to stay for maybe an hour so I could get to know his lips a little better. It wasn't my first kiss, but it was my first kiss with someone I wanted to touch. And it's not like I was completely smitten with him at that point. I liked him, yeah, but I really just wanted to kiss him until I knew how to stir up noises in his throat.

I know his lips pretty well now, but somehow, it's not quite enough. Each time we meet, I crave for him to stay more and more. I hate that I'm so clingy, but hell, Vic is blatantly addicting. And I don't get the impression that he really minds; in fact, last time, he kept pulling away and then kissing me and then pulling away and then kissing me until Will and Mike were screaming his name along with a few choice profanities and he had to go for real.

So him leaving sucks for both of us, but it works to my benefit in a way. We meet whenever we can since saying goodbye is so hard. And the hellos are really, really nice.

There's a system. I stand two feet away, Vic checks to make sure no one's watching, and then he steps forward and kisses me. Since the third time we met, this has been how it's gone. Tonight is no different. Well, not technically. This time he grabs my face with both hands and sucks on my bottom lip deeply, making my head spin. I'm sure I have a dopey grin on my face when he pulls away.

"Hi," he smiles shyly. "I'm glad you came."

"Well, duh I came. I'm pretty much obsessed with you."

Vic laughs and puts his hands in his pockets. "Um...I have some bad news. Let's go up. I have a feeling I'm going to have to kiss you a lot to make it up to you."

I'm about to ask what's wrong, but before I can open my mouth, he's already climbing up. Without another word, I follow. Whatever it is, he still seems cheery, so it can't be that bad.

I'm familiar with getting up here by now, and unlike the first time, I do so effortlessly. Vic sits on the ground right by the edge. It's a clear night. A hot one; early June. Almost instantly, he sheds his Stardust jacket. When I sit across from him, he's wearing nothing but his jeans and a Circle Jerks tank top. It's a good look. Vic is small, but not scrawny. Tanned and toned.

"What's the bad news?" I ask once I'm able to tear my gaze away from his smooth shoulders. Fretfully, he grabs one of my hands and runs his thumb over the surface, sending tingles up my arm.

"Um...so you know how I promised I'd get us some weed? Yeah, so, that didn't happen." He bites his lip. "I, uh, I still live with Mike and my folks, which is lame, I know, but I got some from Chris and hid it in my room, and my fucking dad found it."

"Oh, damn," I whistle.

"Yeah. Dude, Jaime, I'm really sorry. I know I promised."

"Vic, it's okay." I chuckle at his pout.

"Really? You're not mad?"

"Nope." I grin. "There are other things we can do besides smoking some bud."

I push him onto the ground gently before he can respond, leaning over him to nuzzle into his neck. He giggles while I kiss him, but then he places his hands on my chest and pushes me off of him.

"Slow down, horn dog. I'm not that easy."

"Really?" I retort jokingly, righting myself. "Then who was that three days ago who crammed his tongue into my mouth?"

He laughs, "Alright," and sits up. "Maybe I am that easy. But I want to talk to you first."

"About what?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know. What did you do yesterday?"

"Uh...I got China White's demo from the record shop on fourth."

"Oh, gross. I don't like them."

"What? Why?"

"They're so...I don't know, raw?"

"Really? That's what I like about them. They remind me of Adolescents."

Vic snickers. "That's Mike's favorite band."

"No way," I laugh. "The adolescent likes the Adolescents?"

"Yeah, I know, right? He doesn't even think it's funny."

"Eh, I'm sure he will eventually," I shrug. "Once he's less pissed off at the world."

"Uh-huh," agrees Vic. He plays with a strand of his hair and looks at me curiously. "What were you like when you were fourteen?"

My cheeks heat a little, not exactly proud of who I was at that age. "Oh, you know. Depressed big-time. It was kinda pathetic, you know? But I guess no one really looks back on those years fondly."

"Ch'yeah," Vic scoffs in agreement. "No, I was a piece of shit when I was fourteen."

"Were you angry, like Mike?"

"Not really, but I was a total drama queen. You have no idea how many doors I slammed."

"Damn, I can picture that," I grin. "Feisty little mall maggot Vic."

"Hey, I only went to the mall occasionally," he teases. "And usually I'd only go 'cause my mom wanted me to take Mike to the book store so that he could play with the trains." Vic rolls his eyes. "He had a _thing_ for them. I thought he was too old, but apparently it was flash for an eight year old to hog the four year old toys."

"I'm starting to get the feeling that Mike is way more of a dweeb than he lets on."

Vic laughs fervently at that, shaking his head. "He's a total poser if you ask me. Does most of his shit for the sole reason that he's a horny adolescent boy and wants to do everything in his power to see a pair of tits, you know?" He sighs. "But I love him anyway. And he's damn good at the drums, even if he's doing it for the wrong reasons."

"Hm. Can't argue there."

Vic looks at me curiously. "You're an only child, right?"

"No, actually," I reveal. "I've got a brother, but he lives with my dad."

"Oh. How old is he?"

"Sixteen."

"Why does he live with your dad?"

I shrug. "Dunno exactly, but I don't mind. He and I are decent friends since we're not competing over territory, you know? He goes to my school."

Vic hums and fidgets. "Can I ask why your parents split up?"

"It's not a big deal," I laugh. "Mom spent her money on painkillers. Dad spent his money on strippers. They always argued about whose fault it was we were broke. Anyway, they fought the whole time I was growing up, so I didn't care about the divorce once I heard they'd both stay in L.A."

Vic nods thoughtfully; his eye catches something on my shirt and he reaches out to fix the collar. "Damn, it's great that you're at peace with it. Some kids never get over divorce."

"Yeah, I mean, it makes sense that it would be a heartbreaking thing for supposedly happy families. I just...my dad was never around much anyway and my mom still hardly speaks to me. I'm used to fending for myself rather than throwing a baseball back and forth with my dad." I grin a little. "I mean, he's Mexican as shit so he's not really about the American Dream anyway. So, whatever." I shrug.

Vic studies me for a moment and then crawls toward me decisively. "You know what I like about you?" he says quietly, a playful undertone lilting in his voice. My stomach turns over while he climbs onto my lap. "You are so whatever about everything. It's refreshing."

Before I can respond, he puts his arms on my shoulders and leans in to kiss me. It's not like I wouldn't love to kiss Vic every second of the day, so it doesn't take long for me to grab him by the waist and kiss back. So we make out for awhile. And, as always, it's nice. But then I remember that I came here with a mission in mind.

"Vic, I gotta...." I push him back from me right after his hands move to my face. "I have a question."

He sits back on his heels, peering at me curiously. "What's the matter?"

"Look, it's kinda weird. Like, random. Um. Remember when we played truth or dare?"

He nods. "Uh huh. What about it?"

"Well," I sigh. "There was a question you asked me."

His face falls a little. "Oh."

I almost feel bad asking about it, but I figure it's something I've gotta do. And anyway, unless he killed someone, I don't think I'll be put off of him no matter how bad whatever he did is. I've done plenty of shit I'm not proud of, but if anything, it changed me for the better. And Vic is a really nice guy. I'd be willing to bet that what he did changed him too.

"Vic, you broke someone's heart, right?"

Immediately, he puts up a stony expression as if it's not something I have a right to ask about. "I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, why not?"

He sighs testily. "I mean, it's not something I'm proud of, you know? And you've never broken a heart so you don't get what the guilt is like."

"So?"

"So, what if you decide you don't want to deal with me 'cause of what I did? Like, you can promise now that you won't, but that doesn't mean anything until you hear it, and then you might change your mind. I don't want that, Jaime."

"Vic, you're the same person whether I know what it is or not. And I believe you when you say you're guilty. It doesn't matter what you've done in the past; what matters is how you feel about it."

He snorts. "Alright, Socrates, but what if I stabbed someone or something?"

I chuckle. "Then we'll talk about it."

It takes him a moment to think before he hums and peers at my eyes. "I guess I can tell you, but only if you do something for me."

"Hm?"

He points at the surface of the roof and asks, "Lie down and let me cuddle you?"

I laugh a little at how cute he looks and nod my head. Hell, I may be too macho to _ask_ to cuddle someone, but let's be honest: who doesn't enjoy it? So yeah, I agree without putting up a fight. He smiles at that, grabbing his jacket from the ground and balling it up, then pushing me down gently and sliding the jacket beneath my head. Let me tell you—lying down with solid hair spikes like I have isn't exactly comfortable unless you're willing to mess up your 'do. I figure Vic and I could be in this position for awhile, so I reach down and ruffle the back of my head a little to get the gel to be less rigid. Sure, I'll look like a dickweed later, but I'm going straight home after this anyway.

Once I'm somewhat comfortable, Vic gives me one of his shy smiles and wraps his arms around my waist, resting his head on my chest.

"I'm a total pussy when it comes to cuddling," he tells me. "It's my greatest weakness."

"Could be worse," I shrug.

He sighs and burrows his head deeper into me, which kind of makes me die a little inside. Like, is he even allowed to be that cute? God.

He's quiet for awhile, but he doesn't seem like the type to go back on a promise, so I enjoy the silence for a little instead of pestering him to tell me about his baggage. The air outside is warm. Not so much that it's uncomfortable, but enough that you'd probably want a fan on inside. There's something about being outdoors that makes the heat less uncompromising. With Vic's warmth around my torso, I'm basically the perfect temperature to fall asleep. Of course, we're more than a few blocks off of the suburban area, so the city sounds won't allow that. Still, I'm relaxed as hell. I can even almost see the stars, which is usually damn near impossible in L.A.

"It's a good night," he breathes. I murmur my agreement before he adds, "I really hope I don't ruin it."

"Vic, it'll be fine," I insist. For good measure, I rub his upper back, which gets him to smile. After about a minute, he takes a deep breath and starts speaking.

"You know the band Social Distortion?"

I mumble a 'yeah.'

"So...the whole thing started when I was eighteen. Civil Fights wasn't really a thing yet, but I was messing around with songwriting and Will helped a little with the guitar parts. Basically, it was shit. But that's not the point. Um...so we did a lot of show hopping just to get inspired, you know? So we had seen Social Distortion a few times, and I sorta had a thing for Mike Ness. You know him?"

In surprise, I say, "I know of him. You broke _his_ heart?"

"Shh," he scolds. "Let me finish my story."

I smile half-sheepishly half-encouragingly at him and he takes another deep breath.

"So, like, 1981, right? Will and I were gonna go see a few bands and Social Distortion was on the list. But then he got super sick, like, ralphing all over his house. I figured he could take care of himself and I'd go alone.

"So yeah. I showed up at their set pretty late into the night. Must've been close to midnight. And I got this urge to talk to Mike, like, I don't know where it came from, but I was totally determined that I'd find him afterwards. So I waited around off to the side, and then all of a sudden, he stepped in front of me and gave me this grin. He was like, 'Hey, I've seen you at a few of our shows.' And duh, I was like starstruck 'cause he's a great musician and he had hot makeup on.

"So, like, we got a little acquainted, but then he had to go, and he gave me his number so that I could call him. And so, I guess we became a thing. I really liked him. He was just...I don't know, a damn stud for one thing. But he had all of these big dreams; he wanted to go skydiving and climb the Andes and things like that, you know? Plus, he secretly liked country music, which was hilarious. And yeah. So, um...I lost my virginity to him and we always joked about getting married, even though that would be impossible and, like, neither of us were the marriage type.

"Then he went on tour." Vic sighs. "It was more than a year later. I was nineteen. This is...this is the bad part. Um...we had this _hellacious_ fight before he left, 'cause I figured he'd be sleeping around and he got mad at me for not trusting him, and just...a lot of shit got brought up. And he left before we could resolve it."

Vic takes a deep breath and props himself up on his elbows. He fumbles around in his pocket, pulling out a cigarette and a lighter, taking a long drag before speaking again.

"The thing is, I _knew_ we weren't broken up. I told myself we were, but we weren't. It was just a fight. And so, he went on tour, and I sorta fucked around while he was gone, you know? Not a lot; mainly with one guy and kind of with another. And I don't know why the hell I did it. But the one guy, I, uh...sorta started falling for him. So when Mike got back, I had to act like I thought we had broken up.

"So there was this wicked fight between me and him. At first it was just him being pissed at me for thinking we were over because of a fight. And then, as if that wasn't bad enough, he _apologized_ for the first argument and said that he just wanted to pick up where we left off. And, like, I totally should've accepted it, 'cause he really was a catch. But I was hung up on Nathan. So...I told Mike I couldn't do it. But he...." Vic sighs and rubs his eyes. "He said that he had written a _song_ for me on tour. And he...he fucking played it for me, and it was so, so good, but I had to come clean about cheating on him.

"So that's where it ended. God, the look in his eyes was just...he was so betrayed. I felt like such an asshole. He said he didn't want to speak to me again, which I totally get. And what's worse is that after that, I thought that Nathan and I would be together, but he broke it off 'cause he said I was getting too attached." He smiles sadly and takes a drag. "Guess I deserved that."

It's silent while I take it all in. I'm not sure what I expected, but this doesn't feel quite as shocking as it could've. In fact, it's just a common mistake that everyone makes. Everyone cheats, even if they only do it once. And compared to some other people, Vic's reasons for cheating were somewhat viable. It's obvious that he _cared_ about Mike; it wasn't a selfish thing, it was just lashing out at being hurt. Sure, he shouldn't have gotten so into Nathan, but that's something that's hard to control.

"Well, I'm not running away from you," I say finally to Vic, who looks surprised.

"You're not? Doesn't it scare you? What I did?"

I take the cigarette from him and set it down on the ground a few feet away, pulling him back onto me properly.

"No," I tell him. "It's obvious you feel bad about it. I mean, you don't think you'd do it again, right?"

"Yeah, hell no," he assures me.

"Right, so why should I be worried?"

He looks up at me in awe for a moment. "You really trust me that much?"

"Uh huh," I say honestly. Of course I trust him. Everyone has baggage. I won't get all worked up just because he made a mistake a year ago.

After a second, I add, "Of course, I'm a little crunchy about Mike. If you're gonna go to a Social Distortion show, you've gotta take me with you, alright?"

He laughs and buries his face in my chest. Then, he looks back up at me. "To be honest, I mean, he was a great guy, but what I feel with you is...." He grins shyly. "I dunno. I feel something really strong for you, which is crazy 'cause we haven't even known each other for that long. We've got something special."

A dopey smile finds its way onto my face at that. "Yeah," I tell him. "I agree."

He keeps his bare arms around me and his head on my chest for awhile. I rub his back and he occasionally asks me something obscure like if I believe in ghosts or how many colors there could be that we can't see. It's almost like being high; lying here with Vic's warmth pressed up against me and the almost-silence and the way my heart isn't beating any faster, but it feels like it's working twice as hard to pump blood in and out of my veins. I don't do anything but wonder what exactly he and I are and how long my life will be this: restless days and quiet evenings on the roof with Vic Fuentes and nicotine. It's not a bad life.

Eventually, he sits up and asks, "Can we make out again?"

I laugh at his eagerness, even though I'm just as earnest as he is, and nod. He pulls me up and kisses me, and then I kiss him, and then we kiss each other for a long time. I don't know what it is about the night; it could be that he opened up to me, it could be the cuddling, it could be the warmth, or it could be nothing more than hormones. But no matter what it is, I end up on top of him, desperately lapping at his mouth, our hard-ons pressed together through our jeans and our cheeks flushed and full of life.

"Jaime," he mumbles against my lips, placing both hands on my chest. "Stop."

He pushes me off of him and I look at him inquiringly.

"What's the matter?"

He just laughs lightly, catching his breath. "I'm way too turned on right now. We'd better not go any further."

I furrow my eyebrows. "Well...what if we just went all the way?"

"Himes," he chuckles. "We don't even have stuff."

"Stuff?"

"God, you're clueless," he teases me. "It's not like normal sex, you know? Gotta have lube. And condoms, for that matter."

"Oh," I breathe, blushing slightly. "But wait...why do we need condoms? Like, we can't get pregnant."

"STDs are a thing."

"Oh."

Vic crawls up to me and puts his hands on my waist, resting his forehead against mine. "Believe me, Jaime, I want to tonight, but it's not gonna work out. I mean, your first time should be memorable anyway. True?"

I sigh. "Well, yeah, I guess. I just...I'm ready, you know? I wanna do this with you. Not tonight, but soon."

"How soon?"

"As soon as possible."

"And not just 'cause you're horny, right? I want it to mean something."

"Duh, Vic," I tell him. "I really goddamn like you."

He smiles and sighs. "Okay. I tell you what: I want you to come to my gig in three days. Watch me play, and then afterwards, help us load the drums and shit into the van. Will and Mike will go home, and we...well...how much money do you have?"

"Uh...I don't know, ten bucks? I'm not good at saving it."

He bites his lip. "Maybe we should wait until I can afford a hotel room, Jaime. I don't want to just fuck in an alley; it's your first time."

"No," I protest. "Vic, I wanna do this. And we can...we can set something up here. Like, this is our spot, you know? Right here with you would be perfect."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," I laugh. He purses his lips for a minute and then speaks up again.

"Ahhh-hmm..okay. Alright. Here in three days. But I have two conditions."

"Hmm?"

"First: watch my show."

"Of course."

"Second: we're boyfriends."

"Wh...what?"

Vic scratches the back of his head. "I just mean, like, go steady with me, you know? We probably shouldn't tell anyone, but I don't want you to be kissing anyone else."

"Yeah," I say instantly, somewhat taken aback. "Yeah, I can deal with that."

"Really?"

"Uh huh," I laugh. "It...yeah."

"Yeah?"

" _Yes_ ," I assure him. He giggles and wraps his arms around me in a tight hug. I hug him back and then pull away to peck his lips. He giggles again before pecking me back.

"Okay. So...get here at, like, ten? Three days?"

"Mhmm. That works. Do I need to bring anything?"

"Nah, I'll handle it."

"'Kay."

He smiles. "Okay."

The rest of the night consists mostly of kissing and laughing, but he has to leave pretty quickly. It's always disappointing, but somehow it's easier to deal with this time, maybe because Vic is _mine_. I don't have to worry about the next time I'll see him or him changing his mind about me. He asked _me_ to be his boyfriend; even though he's ages out of my league and has loads more experience. So I don't exactly like seeing him go, but I go back home with a smile on my face even though I have to walk the whole way.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yikes, sorry this took so long.

There are good nerves and bad nerves, and somehow they sit differently. Good nerves are full of helium and sit high in the pit of your stomach, starting from a tiny stirring and building up over time to a full-blown flutter that stretches the corners of your mouth into a grin and lifts you off your feet. Bad nerves come on more abruptly. You're fine, and then suddenly there's a lead weight at the bottom of your gut and a churning right below the base of your throat. It's weird when you have both at once.

Tony told me I could have his car on the twelfth as long as I dropped him off at the Millers' house, because Joanie McBride is babysitting there until two AM and he thinks he could get lucky. By the time I'm knocking on Tony's window, I'm nervous as hell. If I remember correctly, Vic has had sex with three different people. The entirety of my knowledge of sex in general comes from eighth-grade sex ed; then, you throw in the gay factor, and all I can cite is "Homo-Sexual" by Angry Samoans and what Vic told me three days ago. I mean, he knows I'm a virgin, but it's still nerve-wracking. I could make a dickweed of myself, easy.

"Why do you look like you just saw a ghost?" Tony asks me as we slide into the car. A light flicks on inside the house and he tosses me the keys and prompts, "Shit. Drive."

We get the hell out of there while I admit, "I may score a home run tonight."

"For real?" he exclaims.

I shrug. "Yeah."

"Where are you headed? Is it someone from school?"

"Nah. It's just someone I, uh...I met her at the bar."

"Dude, that's bitchin'. What does she look like?"

I turn onto the road and divulge, "She's short...tan...brown hair and eyes. Nice lips, nice ass...."

"Goddamn, Himes. It's about time."

I chuckle. "Guess so."

"What's her name?"

"Uh...Victoria."

I turn my head to the left a little to hide my smile. Vic could convincingly pass as a girl anyway if he threw on some lipstick, so it's not that hard to lie to Tony about it. I bullshit a few more details about 'Victoria' until I'm pulling up in front of the Millers' to let Tony out.

"Have fun fucking Joanie," I offer.

"Will do. See your dwindling virgin ass later."

I chuckle and make sure he gets in the house without committing a heinous crime before pulling out and setting my course to the bar. Dwindling virgin ass. That'll be stuck in my head.

The nerves wrestle around in my stomach the whole way there. Part of the time I'm verging on giddy, and the rest of the time I'm verging on ralphing up my dinner. Once I arrive, the scores are pretty even. I'm a little late. Vic is probably already playing.

Thankfully, the line to get in isn't too long tonight; all the college kids must be studying for finals. The muggy air hits me when I enter. Then, I hear a familiar voice over the speakers and I can't help but smile.

Vic goddamn Fuentes, belting his heart out in front of a horde of alcoholics and hessians.

He's, like, in the _zone_ and doesn't notice me come in, so I lean up against the back wall and just watch him. He spits out the words almost faster than Will can play; he stomps around the stage and lies on the ground and pushes crowd surfers down and just fucking sings. I feel sorry for anyone who has never seen a performance like this. The music is fucking inspired. And Vic? He's a goddamn animal.

You wouldn't think that the heaviest of punk music could be soothing, but it actually tames my unease pretty well. By the middle of the set, Will looks more nervous up on stage than I feel. I mean, he's obviously a shy dude, but, like, I'm about to have sex for the first time and he does this a few times a week. So, yeah, it's pretty impressive of me to be calm.

The jitters are back by the time the gig is done, but thankfully, I don't feel like puking or anything. I make my way toward the stage and Vic meets me daringly with a brief hug. Mike and Will, despite seeing the greeting go down, don't seem all that bothered. He must be a hugger with everyone.

"Hey, Jaime," he grins at me. I smile in return and offer, "What's up, Vic?" There seems to be an undertone of flirtation in the way he looks at me; as if he's silently boasting that he's staking his claim on me tonight. Or maybe I'm just imagining that.

He doesn't stare at me for too long, instead turning to Will. "You've met Jaime, right?" Vic asks him.

In a gentle voice, Will responds, "Not officially," and holds his hand out to me. I shake it and smile at him.

"Nice to meet you."

"Likewise."

Mike throws in, "Easy on the etiquette, damn." His formerly-bleached hair spikes are dyed red tonight and he seems about an inch taller than the last time I saw him.

"Charming as ever," I tease. "'Sup, Mike?"

"Hey," he offers simply.

"Alright," Vic supplies with a curt sigh. "We've gotta get the gear packed up. Moulin Rude is up soon; we don't want to get in trouble for running into their set time."

He grins briefly at me and gestures with his head toward the stage. He and I follow Mike and Will up the steps to take down the drums and get everything unplugged. Mike gets busy on his spray-painted drum set; it looks cheap, but it can't be too bad since they sound decent over the speakers. Will heads over to the amp on the other side of the stage, turning all of the knobs down to zero and unplugging various cables.

"This," Vic says softly to me, picking up his mic from the floor. "This is the love of my life."

He explains briefly that his friend Jason got it for him for his birthday last year and it has survived being thrown, dropped, and even dunked in the ocean one time. Then, he tells me to follow the cable over to where Will is and unplug it from the speaker. I obey, coiling up the cord once it's free and bringing it over to him. He sets it on a massive amp.

When no one is looking, he winks, "Good boy," to which I chuckle. He then instructs, "You help Will with the amps and speakers; I'll deal with Mike. I don't want to force you to handle the Pissiness Supreme."

Will smiles shyly at me while he lumbers across the stage holding an amp and a few cords. I'm not sure exactly what to do, so I stand around uncomfortably until he returns a minute later.

"Need help with anything?" I ask while he wipes sweat from his brow. Nice, Fuentes brothers, making the big guy do the heavy lifting.

Will prompts, "I guess you could wind up those pedals. You know, just so that the cords don't get tangled. The three on the left are ours, but that blue one, we share with another band, so leave that."

"Roger," I nod.

Will scurries away to get working on another speaker. Damn, I never knew a fat guy could scurry.

The pedals are already unplugged, so all I have to do is coil the cables around them and bring them over near the back door. Once I'm done with that, I go back over to Will and ask once again if there's anything I can help with.

"Um...." He purses his lips. "If you promise to be careful, you can get my guitar into the case. But just so you know, if you fuck it up, I'll unfortunately have to give you a knuckle sandwich." He grins anxiously to let me know he's at least somewhat joking; I think he's less nervous about me handling his guitar and more nervous about talking to a human being he doesn't really know. If I had to diagnose him, I'd say this kid was either bullied in school or pushed around by his father. Either way, he's definitely a tense guy. I laugh in good nature and assure him I'll be careful with his baby.

The guitar is shitty-looking, but the sound of it is actually a nice balance of grit and smoothness. The grit, really, is probably attributed to the amp and pedals; it's a clean type of guitar, and it doesn't surprise me that Will would be into that. He seems very mellow.

It doesn't take long for everything to get packed up and loaded into the van. Between the four of us, the hardest part is getting everything in condition to be moved off the stage as quickly as possible. Then, all we really have to do is take a couple of trips back and forth to the trunk. Vic tells me that they're saving up to buy another set of drums so that they can have one for practice and one for performing. It makes sense, considering how much of a hassle it would be to do this more than once a week.

"Coming, Vic?" Mike chirps once we're done, gesturing with his head to the van, which looks like it couldn't tolerate much more than ten more miles. Vic shakes his head.

"I borrowed dad's car, remember?" He smiles covertly at me. "Himes and I are gonna paint the town."

"Oh, yeah," he mumbles. "See you at home, I guess."

Vic says goodbye to his bandmates, waits for them to clunk off, and checks to make sure no one is in eyeshot before grabbing my hips and walking me backward toward the wall. My breath catches when I make contact; he smiles at that and leans his forehead against mine.

"Hi," he whispers. I breathe back, "Hey."

"You ready?"

"Mhmm."

"Okay."

He pecks my lips once, then releases me from his grip, starting for the ladder. I climb up after him; he takes care to sway his hips, shaking his ass in my face and feigning ignorance about it. Chuckling, I have half a mind to grope him, but decide that that's a little bold for me, and anyway, I wouldn't want to startle him into falling off.

Once we're securely on the roof, he kisses me again, sending warmth down my neck and through my chest and arms. There's nothing up here except for a duffel bag, which looks stuffed to the point of bursting. It's silent between us while Vic unzips it. He dislodges a pillow, a fluffy, dark green comforter, some kind of bottle, and a condom. I can't help but blush at how casually he pulls that out and sets it down. It's not that I'm embarrassed. It's just...this is real. This is happening. Too late to have the gay demons exorcised out of me.

I'm pretty much useless while Vic sets everything up, crouching by the fire escape and watching him lay out the blanket and pillow. I can't believe I'm about to have sex. With such a stud. On a _roof_.

Not that being on the roof is a bad thing. Hell, I suggested it. In fact, it's kind of romantic. Like, this is our spot. His and mine. And fucking up here is, like, claiming it. The thing about it is: how many people can say they've lost their virginity on top of a building? The answer is fucking nobody. And because I know how much it'll mean, I'm far more excited than I am nervous.

Not to say I'm _not_ scared out of my skull at the possibility of looking like a moron.

Vic saunters over to me and pulls me up to a standing position. He murmurs, "I'm so glad to be sharing this with you," which sets my stomach alight. Honestly, I'm tongue-tied, so I figure it's flash to just kiss him instead.

And that's how we begin. Kissing gently, standing in the cool night air, the sounds of the nearby intersections filling the silence. Then, Vic takes a sharp breath through his nose and slips his hands underneath my shirt. When it's just kissing, I'm alright. It's just like any ordinary night where we make out and laugh and have a cigarette or two. And then I remember why I'm here. Why we're here. What we're about to do.

God, am I really about to do this?

 _Take a chill pill_ , I tell myself. I'm freaking out over nothing. This is supposed to be fun, and it's not going to be fun if I don't calm my ass down.

So I mimic his deep breath and grab his face with both hands, sliding them down to his neck and rubbing gentle circles. I've just gotta do what's natural. Sex is instinct. I'll be okay.

I decide to take the upper hand and walk him backwards; he gets the hint and sits down on the blanket, but not before shrugging his jacket and tossing it to the side. I kneel across from him and capture his grinning lips in a kiss. Somehow, I can feel him stirring beneath his skin, as if he's literally buzzing with excitement. I just hope to God he can't tell how damn nervous I am.

I take hold of Vic's waist, running my hands up and down its surface, lapping softly at his mouth. I hate the phrase 'making love,' but I kinda think that's what we're about to do. For God's sake, they should call it something less dumb. I mean, it's not like I have hearts in my eyes. Still, you can't call it fucking when it's not.

He's the first one to get impatient, tugging my shirt over my head and then returning his lips to mine. I shiver while he slides his hands across my torso, in essence feeling my up as if I had tits. To reciprocate, I dip my hands under his shirt. The muscles of his stomach feel so smooth compared to the stark fabric I was gripping a second ago. Eagerly, I cast his shirt away, exposing his well-sunned chest, attaching my mouth to his jaw rather than to his lips.

He makes this sound—something caught between a grunt and a whine that makes the air feel about four times hotter. That's when I really start to overcome the nerves. I want him more than I want to abort mission, so to speak. I don't expect to be an overwhelming Romeo by any means, but hell, I can almost literally feel the lust I have for Vic swirling around in my stomach.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and rolls his body up so that his chest can meet mine. There's something in that action that really turns me on; there's something about feeling his bare, warm skin so close that makes my throat tighten. To counter that, I suck harder on his jaw, then dip my tongue lower, lower, until I'm at the bottom of his neck.

When his hands grab my hips, I push him onto his back and crawl on top of him. By now, we're both hard; I don't know if it's just from being eager or if it's really that hot. Either way, I'm aching to get out of my pants, rocking my hips down and reveling in the way it makes Vic's breath catch.

For a moment, I admire the way his hair is splayed out on the pillow and how his cheeks are faintly flushed. But frankly, I don't have the patience to just sit there and look at him for too long; I have to touch him, in one way or another. So I start my mouth up at his collarbone, propping myself up on my elbows and savoring the way he gasps when I flick my tongue over the bone. I'm moving my hips gently for some sort of friction, which feels damn good in itself. If I really tried, I bet I could come just like this.

I keep working at it until I don't have a coherent thought left in my brain; until I degenerate to about two million B.C. and there isn’t any language—just a string of 'hot, sex, yes, yes, good, fuck,' and other impulses. And that's not a problem. I don't have words to distract me while I move my hips against Vic's form, as I suck a bruise into his chest and then plant a soft kiss on the stained skin.

Vic trails his fingers lightly up and down my back. I shiver under his touch and move up to kiss his lips. I catch a smile before diving in—one that lets me know he's just as eager as I am. Earnestly, he grabs my hips and helps me move up and down. The pleasure builds marginally until I'm practically squirming and I pull back from Vic's lips with a gasp.

"Can I...," he murmurs, and then without leaving time for a response, he grabs my crotch. I can't hold back my grunt of surprise. He smirks at that and palms me briefly before popping the button on my jeans and pulling the zipper down. I kick my pants and shoes all the way off, then reciprocate the undressing on Vic. He has a fair-sized tent in his underwear by the time we're nearly naked. I grind down on him some more before sitting back on his thighs and pressing kisses down his torso. When my lips reach the skin above his bellybutton, he lets out a little whimper.

A moment later, he prods in a voice a fraction higher than normal, "Go on." I look up at him; he's inhaling deeply and looking in concentration at my face. I rub his hip reassuringly before kissing just above the waistband of his boxers. Even from my ostensibly submissive position with my head by his crotch, he manages to look damn cute; his eyes doting and his lip tucked under his teeth. Vic's hips shift around and he makes the tiniest moan in the back of his throat.

When it starts to set in how damn close I am to another man's dick, the nerves return. It's not that I don't like penis, because obviously, I do. It's just that I've never touched someone else's before. Still, I want to make him feel good. And hell, I'm pretty good at masturbating. I can't be _that_ bad at this.

So I swallow my pride and run my hand over the bulge in his boxers. He gasps, hollowing his stomach and looking at me in surprise. I guess he didn't think I'd be so quick to touch him. He recovers quickly, though, and flattens himself out. For a few moments, I just massage him through his underwear. It's a simple action, but he doesn't seem to be complaining. Then, when I figure it's an alright time to move forward, I rub his hip bones for a second before pulling his underwear down. For some reason, it's startling when his dick springs from his chonies. I don't know why. I mean, it's not like I was expecting a slice of pizza or something. It must just be that I'm actually going to touch it, and maybe even put it in my mouth, depending on how daring I feel.

Not that the prospect of pleasing Vic isn't appealing, 'cause damn, I'd make him come any day. But this is my first time, and I'm nervous. I figure the best thing to do, though, is to just not think about it so that I _can't_ worry. So, before I can freak the hell out, I grab the base of Vic's cock in my loose fist and start to work my hand up and down.

And, holy shit, do I like the response I get from that. When I slip my thumb over his slit, he fucking whimpers. God, it's so hot.

Vic murmurs, "Oh my god, Himes," knotting his fingers in my hair in a way that feels surprisingly good despite the tug he gives when I constrict my hand. You wouldn't think that someone pulling your hair would feel good, would you? Well, news flash, it does. Aside from being reassurance that I'm doing okay, it's just a really hot mixture of affection and desperation. I don't even care that my afro will probably make a comeback by the end of the night.

So I decide to do it again, tightening my fist a little around his cock and smirking at his ragged breathing.

I can't explain what compels me to do it, but before I know it, I plant a kiss at the base of his cock and then wrap my lips around the head. He actually, physically gasps. I guess it's a surprise for both of us, but in a good way. His hands weave their way into my hair, undoubtedly fucking up the gel, but that might be for the best anyway. I pull my lips over my teeth to the best of my ability, swirling my tongue over his skin and taking as much of him into my mouth as I can manage. Honestly, I don't know much about giving head. You hear some things when you have Geometry with certified sluts, but it doesn't exactly come with an instruction manual, so I have to go off of common sense. No teeth; I don't want him to fear for his life. When I suck a little bit, he breathes out my name, which is an excellent motivator. I don't know why it's so hot to hear him say my name while his penis is inside my mouth, but who am I to question the natural order of things?

With one of my hands resting on his hip, I can tell he's trying hard to stay still. For that, I'm grateful. If he pushed up into my mouth, I'd probably gag, which would be embarrassing. I'm just glad I'm able to have any effect on him at all. The weird part is that it's kind of fun to blow him; to sink my head as deep as I can go on his cock and taste his half-bitter, half-salty skin. His fingers tangled in my hair are a nice bonus.

Without warning, when I _swear_ I'm almost at the base, he pulls me upwards and I disconnect from his cock with a loud slurping noise that forces me to suppress an amused snort.

Vic pants, "Pretty good for an amateur." He looks turned on beyond belief by now, as if I couldn't already tell from his rock solid cock that was in my mouth less than ten seconds ago. He's the type of guy who has a grin waiting to spring out at any moment, but now, although it's still there, it's hidden behind ravenous eyes that stir up some kind of anticipation in my stomach. I want him. He wants me. I want to grab him in every place I can reach and move so fast and hard and why the hell do we have to be going so slow right now?

He kisses me then; soft, yet ardent, which is somewhat pacifying. I at least feel slightly less like jumping his bones right this second. His hands move from my hair and down to my hips, and he hooks his thumbs under the waistband of my underwear. He gets them off while I'm occupied by his mouth. It's when that last bit of clothing has reached my ankles that I move away a little to kick it off, and Vic pushes me down so that I'm underneath him. Our lips only separate briefly, clumsily, throughout the movement.

There's something different in the friction when he grinds against me now that we're both totally unclothed; something that sparks in my lower half and drives me absolutely fucking insane, wrapping my arms around him tightly and tangling my fingers in his hair. If I thought I was in control before, I was dead wrong. I guess that's not fair. I'm a virgin; you couldn't expect me _not_ to get completely mushy at least once. I'm so lost in his lips that I don't even notice his hand moving south until it wraps around my cock.

I can't believe there are people who think that this is unnatural or disgusting. As far as I know, normal people feel this good during sex too. If it's such an abomination, why the hell would God wire my brain to feel nothing but adoration toward Vic? Sorry, but you can't convince me that this is a choice.

A sin, sure. The sex, I mean. Like, he's stroking my cock, but premarital sex is a sin for your vanilla man-on-woman couples too, so fuck off.

My breathing gets even more tied down in my throat the longer he does this, partly because of the pleasure, (no shit), and partly because I'm beginning to finally, actually, get that Vic wants this as much as I do. He cares about me and wants to make me feel good, and damn; even if he's insane for it, I intend to let him.

Vic keeps stroking me, and at this point I'm biting my lip hard and gripping his waist harder. It's as if electricity is crackling through my lower half. If it were possible, I'd have no problem turning Vic into my sex slave so that I could feel this way all the damn time. Soft hands and nerve endings, and, just, _Vic_. It's not like I'm close to coming yet, so how is it legal for him to be able to make me feel so good?

No one really tells you about how you can be somehow horny on top of horny. Like, you're clearly going to come within the next fifteen minutes or so, yet no matter how much you logically want to prolong it, your dick is screaming, 'get me off already, narbo!' The weird part is that it's not a bad thing. Maybe it makes me a total chick, but I could probably do this whole foreplay thing for hours, no matter how torturous it is for my nether regions.

His tongue finds its way to my lips and I intercept it with mine, running my hands up and down his back. His hand work gets sloppier, but I don't mind. It's better than _not_ getting my dick fondled by Vic, anyway. After awhile, he pulls away slightly and pats my hip twice in some sort of gesture, giving me a look of ardor.

Holy shit. Vic and I are going to, like...have sex.

Seconds after the thought enters my head, he moves back a bit, his eyes scanning the rooftop before landing on the supplies he had gotten out earlier. He picks up the condom first, tearing it open hastily and rolling it onto my cock without taking his eyes off of me; which is, in best terms, sexy as hell. I hadn't really thought about it, but I guess it would make sense for me to fuck him. We're both as gay as gay gets, but I hide it a little better; it's not all that surprising that Vic would _prefer_ to have things in his ass.

He picks up the bottle next, and, regarding my cluelessness, takes my hand in his. All of a sudden, there's a cool substance on my palm and he's shifting up to sit on my stomach.

"Do you know what to do?" he asks in a way that somehow doesn't make me feel like a total airhead. It's a little embarrassing to admit that, no, I don't, but I shake my head anyway in lieu of doing something completely wrong.

Vic brushes some hair out of his face and says, "You've gotta stretch me."

I grunt and bite my lip. I...well, I don't know what the hell stretching even is. I would assume it has something to do with making his asshole a little more dick-sized, but how is it done? Is there a proper technique? Sheepishly, I ask, "How?"

Vic just smiles and moves my hand behind his back and between his ass cheeks. My fingers brush what I am fairly certain is his anus. God, what I'm wondering is whose idea it was to stick his penis inside the same hole you shit out of. I mean, allegedly, it feels good, but still. It's a weird idea.

Vic instructs, "One finger first." Okay. So, I am going to put my finger in his butt. No big deal. This is normal.

Before I know it, I'm pushing past the brim of his hole, watching his face carefully for any signs of pain. Surprisingly, he barely reacts. It actually seems like he's pushing himself deeper around my finger, swirling his hips just a fraction. I can't help but ask, "Does it hurt?" He just smirks and shakes his head.

Less than ten seconds pass before he prompts, "Two."

"Huh?"

"Two fingers now."

"Oh."

I slip another finger inside him. It's a tighter fit this time, and he urges, "Move 'em around a little, Himes."

Having no idea what I'm doing makes things difficult. I don't want to hurt him, but I still have to do _something_. I close my eyes for a second, wiggling my fingers around a bit. When I peek at him again, he doesn't seem to be in pain, so I continue. I can feel him slide all the way down to the base of my fingers. Because of the lube, it's a smooth, wet glide. I can tell he wants a little more motion. Though it makes me nervous, I scissor my fingers experimentally. Vic likes this, as indicated by a faint grin and sigh. Maybe it's not supposed to hurt. Chicks always claim it does; then again, at least half of them are probably lying about having regular sex, let alone anal. Plus, I don't doubt Vic is used to pain. He literally throws himself on the ground onstage at least once a week.

About then I start to notice again how hard I am. My cock is pressed up against Vic's ass and my hand. I try not to be impatient, but I'm studying Vic's face for any sign that he's ready to move on. Him being fucking _naked_ doesn't help at all. His torso is shining with sweat, a trail of stubbly hair tracing from his navel to just above his cock. His head is tilted backwards just enough that I can see the dip between his collarbones, the tendons stretching up to his jaw, and the taut skin over his adam's apple. Jesus Christ, he's too good for me.

"O-oh," Vic gasps suddenly. I look up at him in curiosity. He bites his lip and fucks himself against my fingers, which is inexplicably hot. My best guess is that I've found a spot inside him that feels really good. He shifts his hips around some more, furrowing his eyebrows in concentration.

"Okay," Vic says suddenly, sliding himself off of my fingers. He leans over to grab the bottle again. "I...are you ready?"

"Uh huh," I breathe, holding back a "yeah, no shit." I guess this is supposed to be romantic, so sarcasm probably isn't the best idea right now. Vic hurriedly slathers my dick with lube, then positions himself above me. When he peers at me, he looks like he has something to say; his expression inquisitive and the right edge of his lip tucked into his teeth.

"I...," he starts, then shakes his head.

"What is it?" I ask. He only shakes his head again and gestures for me to come closer. I prop myself up on my elbows before he leans down and kisses me slowly.

"I'll do all the work, okay, baby?" he murmurs. "You just relax."

"What? But...I want this to feel good for you too," I protest. He chuckles.

"I can take care of both of us. Don't worry about anything."

I still have the urge to object, but his expression lets me know he means business. I trust him, anyway, and now's not really the time for an argument over chivalry.

He jerks me off a little before positioning the head of my cock at his entrance. Then, without much of a warning, he sinks down on me.

The feeling is indescribable. It may only be the novelty of it, but feeling him around me is a thousand times better than anything I can do to my dick myself. He just feels so tight and warm and the satisfied look on his face sends shivers racing through my body.

He starts off by working his hips slowly. His thighs grip the muscles of my hips, squeezing every time he fucks himself downward. It's a different kind of pleasure I'm feeling; it's not the obvious I'm-going-to-come kind; it's subtler, but just as good. This piece of shit punk singer riding my dick is doing things to me I had no idea were possible. His small frame makes me want to hold him for hours at a time. His full lips attract mine like magnets every time I look at him. And I'm earnestly waiting for that distinct voice of his to emerge from his throat. Every molecule in me wants to touch every molecule in him. That's what makes this sex feel so damn good.

For awhile, the rhythm works. It's intimate. Slow and sensual. But honestly, no one _really_ wants to fuck slowly the whole time. Vic eventually starts moving faster; bouncing himself up and down harder. It amplifies the building euphoria so that neither of us can help our heavy breathing. His trapped moans are the perfect soundtrack to the night.

I hear a small "oh" fall out of his mouth that makes me bite my lip. I feel bad that I'm not helping much, but then again, I guess I don't really need to. From the looks of things, Vic can manage his own pleasure just fine. Images flash through my mind of Vic, unclothed, bouncing up and down on top of faceless dudes, exploring the inside of his own ass with their cocks. I don't particularly enjoy thinking about how many other guys he's been with, but it's still pretty hot picturing him riding a dick and loving every second of it.

And then, seeing the real thing is even hotter. I heard a rumor once that there's some kind of sweet spot inside a guy's ass. I'm not sure whether it's true or not; I didn't really want to ask the librarian about anal; but with the way Vic seems to be enjoying himself, I'd bet on it existing. For no apparent reason, I think of the time he and I played truth or dare up here and he admitted how often he masturbates. Maybe he fingers himself sometimes. Can you come from just that? Does Vic cram his own fingers into his ass and feel around until he blows his load?

"Mm, I'm getting close," whimpers Vic, pulling me out of my dirty daydream. I guess now's a pretty decent time to fantasize about him touching himself as opposed to History class or a silent family dinner or something. But tending to my boyfriend on the brink of orgasm is a hell of a lot more important than thinking about it. I reach for his cock to help him finish the job, but he pushes my hand away and grabs it himself, beginning to jerk himself off. His movements become more urgent by the second; his hips sink up and down on my cock, increasing the ecstasy I feel.

He whimpers. "Can I come?"

"Huh?" What the hell is he asking permission for?

"Please, sir, let me come."

Well, shit. Why did he wait this long to let me know he's kinky? I permit, "Come," and to my astonishment, he lets out a low groan and comes on his own stomach.

I feel my own climax approaching, but I'm still stunned at what just happened. Vic called me "sir." What's more is that I kind of liked it. I return to earth when Vic slides off my cock a few seconds later. He's still stroking his dick slightly; probably milking out the last of the orgasm. He slips the condom off of me and slurps me into his mouth. For a moment, he detaches himself just to growl, "Come in my mouth." And, God, it's hot. His head bobs up and down and before I know it, my insides begin to tighten. Moments later I fall off the edge, coming down his throat while his tongue massages my tip. I can't really say whether it's the best climax I've ever had, but I know for damn sure I enjoy every second. My eyes screw shut and I just keep coming and coming and coming.

Once I'm done, Vic gets off of me and wipes his mouth. We're both breathing hard, and he laughs.

"Shit, that was good." I'm still coming down a little bit and I feel sort of tingly all over. His naked form looked hot while we were having sex, and now, it just looks beautiful. A nearby stoplight turns green, and the shadows cast over his body change colors. He runs a hand through his hair and reaches for his chonies.

"You okay?" he asks, peering at me while he pulls them on. I chuckle, "Yeah, definitely."

"No regrets?"

"No," I say honestly. "You?"

"Well, I regret accidentally calling you 'sir.'" He grins sheepishly while I just laugh.

"Fuck, I didn't mind."

He starts crawling toward me but stops halfway there and repeats, "You didn't?"

"Dude, it was hot," I assure him. He sighs in relief and lies down on the pillow next to me. I reach for my underwear. The fabric rubs my sensitive dick when I pull them on, but I just shiver it off.

I know by now that Vic is an affectionate guy, so it doesn't surprise me when he snuggles up to me. It does, however, give me those dumb butterflies in my stomach I seem to get every time our skin touches. He sighs into my neck and grips my waist tightly.

"I guess I'm a little freaky," he shrugs. "No shame in that, right?"

"Hell no. I mean, like, you already took a chode up the ass. What's a few kinks on top of that?"

He giggles. "Yeah, for real." He rests his head on my chest and silence consumes us for awhile. It's comfortable. Someone opens the bar door downstairs, letting loud music spill out for a second until it swings shut again. It's slightly nerve-wracking to be half-naked in the open air with a dude cuddling me on top of a fag-hating punk bar, but I figure no one's gonna be dumb enough to climb up to the roof and catch us in the act. Well, post-act. The _really_ scandalous shit is done with now.

It's appalling to me that this adorable little motherfucker cuddling me is a sexual deviant. Like, he's the definition of queer; hands-on-hips and everything; but he possibly likes to be abused in bed. I guess that it makes sense in a way. I met him when he was abusing himself onstage; yelping and whining words to gunfire-quick music. He's no preppie kid, that's for sure. But he's not exactly some tough cornchip either. Anyway, I don't think I'd mind indulging in some of his fantasies. As long as he enjoys himself, I could dominate him all damn night.

"Did you bring any cigs?" I ask after awhile. My skin is buzzing in the afterglow of good sex, but my brain is itching for some nicotine. Vic hums and gets up. After rifling through his duffel bag, he tosses me a pack and a lighter. I stand up, pull my jeans back on, and sit on the edge of the roof. I used to be afraid of heights. Hell, they still made me nervous up until a month or two ago when I became blinded by this brand new boy who wanted to climb up here to smoke. I've been up here enough times by now that I have no problem letting my legs dangle over the edge.

Once I get a stick lit, Vic comes over and sits next to me. He's still only in his boxers. I don't blame him; it's a pretty hot night. In L.A., you don't have to wait too long for summer to come around. I'm lucky I like the heat. Tony wants to move to goddamn Alaska.

Vic lets his head rest on my shoulder while I pass him the cigarette. We've smoked together so many times that I'm pretty sure at least half of the tar in my lungs is from cigarettes he gave me. If it kills me, so be it. I'm never more at peace than I am here on this rooftop with this dude and some cigs.

"So," Vic hums, passing me back the cigarette. "That was your first time, huh?"

"Yup," I supply after a drag. I'm not a virgin anymore. My metaphorical cherry has been popped. I am no longer eligible for blood sacrifices.

"How are you feeling?" he murmurs. I take another pull on the cigarette before passing it back and answering.

"I feel good. I...y'know, like, it meant something to me, and it felt good, and you were totally hot, and it was just...perfect." I squeeze his waist. "Everything is right. That's cheesy as hell, but, like, I'm just at peace now."

And it's true. My relationship with Vic feels more permanent somehow, like now that we've come because of each other, we're bound. Thankfully, that's exactly the way I want it. I've never met anyone like him. I never _want_ to meet anyone like him because it's pretty overwhelming being this close to such a perfect guy. And, like, I know I'm only seventeen and I haven't known Vic for very long at all, but I swear that I could fall in love with this narbo and stay in love with him forever. I never get tired of being around him.

"I'm glad you enjoyed yourself," he says into my shoulder and then kisses my neck. "I loved it too. I love your skin."

Love. He didn't say, "I love you," but he danced pretty close to the edge, and it makes my heart pound. I know he couldn't feel it yet. Still, the thought that he might someday, someday soon, even, is thrilling.

Not much needs to be said after that. I don't want to leave, but I'm fine just sitting alone on the rooftop with Vic, whose stomach currently contains my semen. I think about how invincible I feel now that we've so-called consummated the relationship. Sitting up here, one of us could fall and— _splat!_ —die on the pavement of the parking lot. I know that logically, but with the way I feel, it's like I could do anything without getting hurt. Vic is mine. I'm goddamn falling in love with him, and nothing besides that has any meaning.

It has to be at least a half an hour until he speaks again.

"Do you have any idea what time it is?"

Idly tracing patterns on his back, I reply, "Nope. Do you?"

"No, but I think I should get home. I don't want dad to worry about his car."

My face falls, and I sigh, "Alright. Yeah, I should get home too."

"Will you be here tomorrow?" he asks hopefully, and I nod. Yeah, like I'd miss one of his shows. "Good," he continues, "because I need to see you again as soon as possible."

I laugh and sneak in a kiss before swinging my legs back onto the roof and pulling on my shirt. Vic does the same and throws in, "Cute sex hair, by the way." In a moment of self-consciousness, my hand automatically flies to my head and I find that pretty much all of the gel in my hair is gone. I have an afro for sure. Vic winks and I flip him off while I grab my shoes.

Once we're back on the ground, he offers me a ride home, which I accept. I'd be out of my damn mind if I turned down an opportunity to spend more time with him on a night like tonight.

All we do on the way to my house is listen to one of his dad's Simon and Garfunkel tapes. It's another comfortable silence; I just tell him which street I live on and he finds it easily.

The car pulls up in front of my house and Vic slaps it into park, leaving the car on but taking his foot off the brake.

"So this is where you live, huh?" he yawns. "Nice place."

"Shitty place," I correct. "But it doesn't matter. I'm moving out a few months after high school."

"Huh. Maybe if you get a job, you and I could get a place together." He raises his eyebrows twice to let me know he's just messing around, but I like the thought anyway. Not that having sex on the roof wasn't romantic, but it would be nice to be able to have somewhere more permanent, not to mention private. Plus, I could see Vic all the fucking time. Of course, I won't actually be eighteen until a year from now, but it's fun to imagine the possibilities.

"Which room is yours?" he asks, surveying the house. I point to the top-right window.

"Right up there."

"Gnarly."

His eyes shift back to me and he pulls me in for a lingering kiss. He tastes like tobacco and skin and I don't want to pull away. I don't want to leave him tonight at all. I know I have to, though, so I disconnect our lips and take one last look at Vic Fuentes: a tiny body that loves to be pleased and a big and loud pair of lungs that can roar more brutally than a tiger.

"See you tomorrow," I murmur, pecking him again and reaching for the door handle. As I get out of the car, his voice teases,

"Keep an open ear, babe. I just might throw rocks at your window one of these nights."


	5. Chapter 5

A thousand things could have gone wrong, but none of them did.

I mean, two punk fags living in one of the most dangerous cities in the world? You'd think it'd be doomed to fail. Hell, I'm not even legal, but that doesn't fuck us over. Vic's habit of cheating when he's upset seems like a one-time-thing—or, rather, a one-boyfriend's-tour-long-thing. Anyway, he doesn't cheat on me. And it could have been anything else, really. He could've found someone better. My parents could've found out.  _Tony_ could've found out—or Mike, or Will, or anyone. We could've gotten past our honeymoon phase and realized we're not actually all that in love.

What goes wrong is that we're two punk fags, living in one of the most dangerous cities in the world.

Skinheads, man.

Of course, the night starts out fine. Great, actually. You know, some people say that losing your virginity is a big goddamn deal, and others say it's not that special. I guess it wouldn't be if you didn't really care about who you fucked. Me, though, I wake up on the thirteenth feeling like a new man.

Vic is strange. For a gay twenty-year-old, he's had a lot of experience, but he doesn't seem like a player. I believe him when he says he likes me like that. You couldn't call him romantic, exactly, but in some ways, he comes close. It's those looks he gives me, and the tiny, lingering kisses. He doesn't need to tell me all that sappy shit; I know he means it with how he watches me constantly when we talk or how his eyes light up when he sees me pull up behind the bar. And hell, it's hard not to fall for that.

Tony teases me pretty relentlessly about 'Victoria' on our way over. Since he's with me, I park out front. I'm pretty early, so we just sit for a minute, talking. Part of that is because of the line; it's pretty long, and it's windy, and Tony hates when his limp mohawk gets tangled in the breeze. For being best friends, we don't actually talk a lot. Because of that, we have a lot to say when we do.

So he tells me about how it went with Joanie, and I give him a few vague details about Vic(toria), and he laughs about his drunk dad trying to punch him and missing, which would be funny if Tony's dad missed often, and if Tony didn't have to borrow his mom's makeup every few days to cover up fresh black eyes. I complain about my bullshit math exam, and he talks about a new record he got, and I admit to losing a spitting contest with Cal Ferris and having to surrender the weed I just got. Then, finally, it's a decent time to go inside. Tony waits in line and I duck out back behind the bar.

As promised, Vic is waiting there. Seeing him today does a number on my stomach. It's impossible to describe how stunning he looks leaning up against the wall, smoking a cigarette, relaxed and allegedly alone. That's the man I kissed all over. I was inside him, and he's mine. All mine.

I don't get to admire him for long, because he notices me pretty quickly and then smiles. You couldn't say the view is ruined, since Vic's smile could probably cause world peace. He flicks the cigarette onto the ground, stubs it out, and starts toward me. His hands reach for my shoulders; my hands reach for his waist; we kiss. Slow and sweet, but brief. And God, kissing him feels like magic. The electricity that flicks between our lips could keep me alive for weeks. I'm amazed to think that I can do this whenever I want. This is my human. My boyfriend. My Vic.

What happens next comes to me later in bits and pieces. It's abrupt. It's unfair. One moment I'm pulling away to rest my forehead against his, smiling, and the next I'm flying backwards through the air. Someone says something. I can't tell what; I'm too busy trying to catch my breath after landing on the ground. It isn't Vic. It's a gritty voice. Then, there are more voices.

Either my eyes are closed or I just can't remember what I saw. I hear Vic say something, and about then, my alarm spikes. If they're attacking me, they're attacking him, too, right? So I try to get up. I'll either fight back or get us the hell out of here. But something smacks the back of my skull, hard, and I goddamn black out.

It's not like sleeping. The time seems to pass in an instant, and then I feel as if I didn't sleep at all. When I wake up again, it's to the feeling of rough gravel on my cheek. I'm acutely aware of how my hair must be flattened on this side. I'll have to fix that.

I'm also acutely aware of the blunt force slamming repeatedly into my stomach. Someone is screaming. It's not me, because my lips are pressed together and I can taste something salty in the space where they meet. It's someone with that pubescent churning in their voice—it sounds high and shrill now, but if he were to speak, it would probably be an awkward buzzing caught between man and chain-smoking widow. It must be that kid. Mike.

When I can be bothered to open my eyes, it's to red neon lights, wet pavement, and one scruffy combat boot kicking me over and over. It hurts, but not like whatever happened to my head. My head really hurts, and it hurts worse when I try to remember what happened.

The combat boot is attached to a leg with some acid-washed jeans, and that leg is attached to a scrawny torso in a hand-me-down leather jacket, and then I finally look up high enough to see that it's Mike, and he's the one kicking me, and he's the one screaming, and I'm the one he's screaming at. I can hear what he's saying, but I'm too slow to process what the words mean. Concussions can do that to you.

My nice little ass-whooping carries on for awhile until the kid is yanked away and I get to watch a show of Tony, with his studded belt and ass-hugging jeans, punching Mike square in the jaw. Mike takes it poorly, falling backward and raising a protective hand. Tony roars something about kicking someone while he's down, and Mike says something back, but all I catch is Vic's name.

Vic, Vic, Vic.

I almost smile, because the last time I saw him, we were nestled up in our spot on the roof with those blankets and our glowing hearts. I almost smile, and then I almost melt. It was perfect. So damn perfect. To think that four plus weeks ago, I figured I would end up married to a woman or crammed onto a tour bus for the rest of my life. No, after last night, I know what I want. Not that I expect to flaunt the fact that I put my thingy in someone's thinghole, but I'll be thirty in 1996, and maybe things will be better by then.

Sleeping until 1996 would be nice. I almost drift off, but Tony pulls me up before I can.

"Stay with me, buddy," he murmurs in my ear. His voice sounds ethereal at the start of the sentence and bone-chilling at the end. Is Tony a demon? I look hard at his concerned expression and decide that, no, he's not a demon. Just my best friend.

Tony helps me stagger over to the brick wall and props me up against it. I'm still standing, which is probably smart. It takes me a minute, but I regain my balance, and then my sight evens out. Mike is on the ground, glaring at me and blubbering something unintelligible. He would be at my throat if Tony weren't standing protectively in front of me. What a good friend. Thank god he's scary looking despite the laughable mess on his head and the tightness of his clothes.

"What happened?" Tony mutters to me, and I shrug, which makes my head spin. Something is dried on the back of my shirt. It's probably blood. Probably mine.

"He killed him!" Mike shrieks fluently enough that I can actually understand him. I killed him. Killed who? I've never killed anyone.

Tony is equally confused and asks Mike to clarify, although he does it a lot less politely than I make it sound.

"That fag," Mike hisses, pointing with a shaky hand to me. "Got him killed. Fucking beaten to death."

Fag. Why is he calling me that? How would he know?

"Who got killed?" Tony asks. Mike laughs bitterly and spits red on the ground. I guess Tony punched him harder than I thought.

"My brother," says Mike, and my blood runs cold. "My fucking brother is dead because of your little boyfriend."

Tony starts to say something about him and me not being gay, but I interrupt him.

"No," I say. "No. Vic can't be dead. You're lying, right?"

"Like you have any right to care!" Mike roars.

"That's not—" I swallow. "He's not dead."

"Yeah. He is."

"No. You're lying."

"I'm lying? Yeah, I fucking wish."

"Shut your fucking mouth!"

"Himes," says Tony. "Take a chill pill, dude." He turns to Mike. "What exactly happened?"

Mike pulls himself up and kicks the ground. "We had a gig tonight, so we were unloading shit from the van. A-and then…." He sniffs with a sour expression on his face, and it's clear he's fighting tears. "Then Vic snuck off. I realized he was gone, like, ten minutes later, and I needed help with my drums so I went to find him. He was…he was here, and this dickweed was passed out on the ground and they were beating the crap out of Vic. I tried to stop them, but I-I couldn't. There were, like, ten of them, and they were all bigger than me.

"They dragged him off over there—" He points to the other side of the building. "—and they just…they didn't fucking stop. Ever. They kept kicking him and punching him, and then they realized he wasn't breathing and they threw him down and ran off." Mike takes a deep breath. "I was so, so mad and I chased them and asked them why the fuck they did it, and they were real quiet about it until I said I was his brother, and one of them felt guilty or some shit. And he told me they saw Vic and him kissing. So they…they thought they'd teach them a lesson about being queers. When I came back, he…he was…it was too late."

When he's done, the air hangs dry and I'm queasy. He can't be gone. He can't be. Especially not because of me. That kind of shit doesn't happen. Not for real.

"Jaime," Tony says quietly, and I want to punch him for no reason. "Is that true? Did you, like, kiss Vic or whatever?"

"I don't…," I croak. "I don't remember any of it."

"Alright, whatever, but did you and him have, like, a thing?"

I take a shaky breath and admit, "Yeah. Uh, yeah. We did."

I can't afford to look at Tony, who gets quiet after my confession. I look at Mike instead, which hurts because…no. Vic isn't dead. He's wrong.

"There must be a mistake," I say with certainty. Mike snorts.

"It's not like I want to believe it, either."

"No, no, you're fucking wrong. Where is he?"

Mike shoves his hands in his pockets and gestures with his head to the side of the building he pointed to earlier. I stumble over, closing my eyes and preparing for the worst. Obviously, if Vic is there, he's going to be passed out. But that doesn't mean he's dead.

Nothing could have prepared me for what I see when I round the corner. It takes my eyes a second to focus, but when they do, I wish for the first time in my life that I could be blind.

"No," I murmur. "No. No fucking way."

I stagger over to the bloody heap on the asphalt, knowing well that Tony and Mike are probably watching. This can't be happening. No chance in hell.

"Oh my…God," I whisper, my voice breaking as I drop to my knees and turn Vic on his side. He's not cold, but he doesn't have that powerhouse type of warmth he usually does. His blood is almost room temperature. His arm falls limp while I roll him onto his back.

The face is the worst part. His lip is split open and caked with crystallized blood, staining his chin red. He's the color of stale coffee with too much cream in it, his eyelids closed, but puffy, and his cheeks gaunt. This isn't something I would normally admit, but I retch at the sight. Vic is…he's dead. He's really, really dead.

How is it fair for my heart to break this hard if I haven't even known him for two months?

I swallow and say, "Call the fucking police," my voice cracking at the end. Over and over, I whisper, "Call them, please, call them," until Tony murmurs to Mike, "Go inside and ask to use their phone."

Mike disappears and Tony stands a few feet behind me while I desperately battle the lump in my throat and the tears threatening to escape my eyes. I can't cry in front of Tony; he's going to think I'm even more of a faggot than I already am. But I pull Vic into my arms, and then it gets too hard and I let out a desperate sob. I'm holding Vic, and he's here, but he's not here. Not really. In maybe an hour, he'll cool down and he'll start to decay. The thought suddenly disgusts me, and I push him away from me. That's not Vic. That's a bunch of dead flesh.

But, _God_ , this is the body that held him. I wanted to pour my heart out so those ears could hear me; I kissed those lips and that tongue tasted me. I ran my hands over those sides and those waxy, blueish hands, when they were elegantly bronzed and pumping full of blood, left nail marks on my neck that are still there.

Being human, living, is just about transmitting information from yourself to the world around you and watching the tiny ripples of consequences. You touch the face of someone who likes you, and he takes that in and gives you something back. A kiss feels like a supernova. Tell him you're falling for him, and every bad particle rushes up to his lips and turns the corners up in a smile before pouring out his mouth and nose, and he feels like a king. I fed that body so much information. Then somebody burned the books to dust, but put the fire out before the building could crumble.

After a good few minutes of swaying back and forth and crying silently, my desperation overtakes me and I leap back up to grab Vic's face.

"Please," I croak. "Just...a miracle...a miracle would be okay. God, you fucking man in the sky, Vic was supposed to _go_ somewhere. You can't...just...not like this, please. Please!"

Before I can get hysterical, the sound of sirens gets louder and louder. Then, Mike pulls me off of him, and he's not gentle about it, either. I land on my back on the asphalt, smacking my head on the ground once again. I wish I could bring myself to care. If it didn't set my vision spinning, I'd be right back up to hold Vic again.

An ambulance and a police car pull into the lot. About then, Tony makes himself scarce, re-entering the bar through the side door. Two officers get out. One lumbers over to Mike, and the other to me.

"Alright, kid, what the hell happened here?" asks the man standing above me. He's short and pudgy with a decent porno mustache and dark, beady eyes. Normally, I'd jump at the chance to make fun of his fat, pasty ass, but I'm a little more preoccupied with being injured and distraught.

"I don't...." I cough, wiping my eyes. "I don't really, I...well, I got knocked out and I can't remember."

"What? What the hell good are you if you don't know anything? Try."

"Alright, hot shot, step back. This kid's head is bleeding," says a throaty woman's voice. A busty paramedic leans down and grabs my wrist, finding my pulse.

"Well," she says. "You're alive. Don't appear to be bleeding profusely, and you're still conscious, so I can take my sweet time if I want. I think you definitely need a hospital, though. What's your name, kid?"

I glance at Mike, and once I can interpret my swirling vision, I see him making wide gestures and explaining what happened to both cops before I answer the EMT.

"Jaime. Jaime Preciado."

"Alright, Jaime. I'm sure you're upset about your friend, but if you could do your best to help me out, it'll be better for all of us. Can I get you into the ambulance?"

"What happens if I say no?"

She smacks her lips. "Then you can bleed out slowly."

"You're a bitch," I complain foggily. The longer my eyes are open, the dizzier I feel. It's almost nice. Numbing. "And a shit paramedic."

She counters, "If you hessian punks can handle throwing yourselves off of stages, then I'm sure you can take a little dry humor." I grimace at the prejudice. "Anyway, they stick me on cases like these 'cause usually, the patient's unconscious. I do better with people who don't say dumb things." Then, she barks, "Alice, stretcher!" What seems like a moment later, a petite, plain-faced woman with short black hair emerges from the vehicle.

"You don't look like you can stand," says the bitchy one, "so we're gonna lift you." They put their hands beneath my shoulders and thighs. "One...two...three." They heft me up, and she says, "I bet it's not every day two hot nurses get this close to your ass."

"Eleanor," scolds the smaller one. "Cut it out. He's been through hell."

"Oh, lighten up, Alice."

They lift the stretcher into the ambulance while Alice says, "I mean it. I'll report you again. You know what Mr. Alexie said about your insensitivity."

"Geez, you don't have to be a drama queen about it."

"Eleanor."

"Fine, you handle the kid; I'll go talk to Albert and the pedo."

Eleanor leaves and Alice smiles apologetically at me, although it's hard to decipher what with my blurry vision.

"I'm really, really sorry," she says. "I don't know why she's an EMT."

Alice checks me over, but my mind gets hazier by the minute. I suddenly feel really warm just as there's some kind of motion underneath my back. The ambulance is...probably...what's...the word? Moving.... Yeah.

"Stay with me," jolts a voice. "It's not a long ride, I promise."

"Where's Vic?" I ask in a sudden panic. My head is swimming while I scan my surroundings.

"Calm down. The police called the detectives and the other examiners. They'll take care of your friend."

"He's not my friend...he's my boyfriend," I half-wail, remembering Vic's body on the asphalt a little mode vividly than I'd like to, feeling the ghost of his lips on my neck.

Alice gets quiet after that.

I fight for my consciousness for what feels like forever. While the motion of the vehicle slows, my brain starts to lull. Someone is murmuring in the background. The siren cuts out. The doors open.

I let go.

-

I wake up the next afternoon, although when I do, I wish for my consciousness to escape me again. The throbbing of my head and ribs are one thing, but there's this unbearable, swallowing sense of loss in my chest that has me sobbing the instant I can suck a big enough breath in. I'm desperate. For what, I don't know. I want to fight. I want to kick and scream. I want to kill.

I really just want Vic back.

Something funny happens when people die. I guess funny isn't the right word, because there's damn _nothing_ funny about Vic popping like a zit on account of a few skinheads who thought the only logical response to two fags kissing for half a second is a thorough ass-kicking. You could say 'ironic.' Why the hell don't I feel like dying if the love of my goddamn waning adolescence is a slab of flesh on the coroner's table?

I'd tell you it's because I know what it feels like to lose someone and I never want to put anyone through that. I'd tell you that, but it wouldn't be quite right. Honestly, I don't give a rat's ass about how crushed my mom and dad and even Richard would be if I somehow managed to off myself. And it'd make sense, right? I mean, Vic's death as good as killed me anyway, so why wouldn't I feel like robbing a gun store and boring a lead-lined hole through my brain? I've been set off for much less.

The thing is, I don't feel like it. I'm not sure what I do feel, but I do not want to join Vic in whatever eternity queers get. You know, you hear a lot about lovers who died for each other, but here's the thing: they're all old. They're either old as hell, or in fair Verona where we lay our scene, a plague on both their houses—or something. I never paid attention in English class. Anyway, the point is, I might've died _for_ Vic, but I don't want to die just because he's gone and I don't know how to function without him.

And hell, I think I loved him. I loved him so much my chest hurt when I saw his smile, and suddenly I understood what the hell everyone sees in the goddamned Beatles with their corny love songs. I loved Vic, and he ripped out my insides, all of them, when he left. What he didn't rip out is the buzzing survival instinct reverberating through my hollow chest.

I want to survive.

Sure, I may want to round up a fourth of the population and kill them all violently, but I want to survive while doing so.

I know that from the moment I regain consciousness. I know that when my mom and Richard come to see me, and I have to explain that kissing Vic was a joke, and of _course_ I'm not one of those abominable homosexuals. I know it when I sit to recover completely alone save for periodic visits from a nurse. I know it when Tony comes and rips out my insides all over again, in a totally non-gay way.

Tony doesn't really know how to knock. I'm starting to doze off (even heartbroken people can sleep) when the door flies open and startles me back to lucidity.

He doesn't burst in exactly, despite the racket he made with the door. Tony isn't a bursting-in-dramatically kind of guy. He's the dude that sticks to the shadows, quietly seducing your girlfriend right under your nose because he'll go down on her and you won't, and plus he's so damn mysterious and bitches love that. Not that I have ever had a thing for Tony. I'm just saying.

He takes the liberty of leaning coolly up against the wall, as if he's letting me know he won't be staying long enough to want a chair. For a minute, we just study each other. We used to be equals. Now, Tony is the predator and I am the prey.

"What are you in for?" he says facetiously. It's funny, but I know things are going to get heavy, fast.

"Just a couple of ribs are broke," I tell him. "Got some nasty bruises, and I sprained my wrist. Plus, I needed stitches on my head." I turn my head to the side to show him. "They had to shave that part, see? I'll have to shave the rest when I get out of here."

I swear he grins. "About time you got rid of that nasty mess."

"You're one to talk," I counter. Subconsciously, he runs his hand through his hair, which is shaggy now, like on most days. His hair really is a nasty mess, but it looks good on him somehow. And when he actually spikes it up, it's so badass.

It's quiet for another moment, and then he sighs.

"I didn't know you were a goddamn fag."

That's enough to set my eyebrows furrowed and my mouth into a grimace.

"You really think I'd want to tell you something like that?"

"Well, shit, Himes, I don't get it. Why let me waste all this time being your best damn friend just to hear you've chosen to blow penises?"

"It's not a fucking choice, Tony," I spit. "You think I want this? Damn, I would _love_ to think that boobs are God's gift and that girls are anything but annoying. Who in their right fucking mind would _want_ to love the same sex?"

"You're telling me that you're actually turned on by a dick?"

I snort. "Being 'turned on' isn't the point. It's love. Do you think you could choose who you love?"

"I don't love anybody."

"Well, that's your own scumbag problem."

He sighs in exasperation. "Look, I'm sorry about your... _boyfriend_ , or whatever, but...I can't hang with a fag. I mean, tough shit, but that's the way it is."

I laugh dryly, and suddenly, the room feels severed and cold. "Oh, I get it. You're an asshole, but I get it. Tony Perry, too goddamned preoccupied with Black Flag and baggin' on fags to be there for his best friend."

"Don't make a scapegoat outta me," he puts coldly. "You say you get it, then get it. I don't need a bitchy queer making me look like some kind of mercenary."

"And I don't need a eurotrash wannabe shit-talking me after I got beat up for the same crap. Get the hell out of my room."

Tony chuckles and shakes his head, starting for the door. "Whatever. Have a nice life."

"Likewise," I say icily. And when he walks out the door, he walks out of six years, countless mistakes, and one hell of a friendship.

You'd think that after so long I would've figured out my best friend is an asshole.

Oh, who am I kidding? I knew. Damn everyone knows that Tony Perry is a selfish creature, opinionated to all hell and uncouthly vocal about whatever he believes. It's my own fault for letting myself into that. Like, what did I _think_ would happen? He'd be cool with me fagging around? Because that's not something I could keep to myself forever. It's probably better that the ties are being severed now rather than years later when it's too late to recover from that kind of loss.

Of course, it would be nice if he could've waited until _after_ I got released from the hospital and finished mourning Vic.

Because, despite my trifling and relative lack of whiny lamenting, it burns. It fucking burns that Tony values his own prejudice over my friendship and mental health. Common sense says that when your only friend abandons you, you're not going to take it well.

And I don't. I'm not okay for the few days I'm kept at the hospital for monitoring. I'm not okay when I go home and refuse to attend the last few days of school. I'm not okay when I get the news that I failed four classes and missed all of my exams and have to retake my junior year.

But who would expect me to be? I mean, it's a pretty common stereotype that teenagers want to grow up, but no one gets it. Growing up isn't about your ability to make your own decisions and smoke and drink if you want and live on your own and get a job. Growing up is when you learn to deal with something that splits every atom in your being open. It's when you're squashed like a bug and get right back up. And you know what? I don't grow up then, not really. I don't take it well at all; you could call that chapter in my life Jaime Preciado's Short Descent into Alcoholism and Violence. But you could still say I grew up too fast. Nobody should have to deal with their love dying when they're only seventeen. It's a pain far worse than heartbreak; there are so many 'what if's and 'why the hell's. And when you finally manage to come to some kind of peace with it, it snaps right back when you have a nightmare some random-ass night that has you trembling and aching for your dead love.

But the thing about it is, I come roaring out of that pain sword raised. I take life by the throat and chuck it up against the wall. If shit like this can happen, there's no way I'm wasting the time I have left wallowing or just passing the time.

You might be wondering what happens to me next. That's something I can't answer yet, but I can ask you this:

If your love's life ends, are you going to give our sick God the satisfaction of you _not_ living your own to the fullest?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anyone feels like cutting off my arms. The epilogue will be posted on Monday.


	6. Epilogue

I start acting out in August of 1983.

I'm sad for awhile. Really, really fucking distraught. I figure Vic dying was my punishment from God for shoving my dick into a craphole. It's unethical, right? It's just the natural order of things; love is for an egotistical male and an insecure female to find as soon as possible, get hitched, and have an unhappy family. The American dream. Survey says I should've fucked a woman. Now, because of my dumb-ass faggot brain, the guy I loved, or at the very least adored, is rotting in a coffin beneath twenty square feet of dirt and a vague, callous headstone.

The self-pity carries on for much longer than I'm proud of. I stay inside for two weeks straight; I lie in bed all day and chain-smoke out the window like a goddamn chimney whenever my parents are out. Once the official letter from the district comes in the mail about my grand flunking of eleventh grade, Richard literally drags me out for a lecture and then decides I need to get a job or volunteer at a homeless shelter or enlist in the military; then stops screaming and sends me back to my room still smelling like stale sweat and self-pity without dealing me an actual punishment. I can't even bring myself to give a damn. I'll probably die by twenty-five anyway, so why gripe about it?

Mind you, this is  _befor_ e I come to my profound realization that I need to fucking live. What, did you think that I immediately started up my passive-aggressive 'I love life' agenda?

No, I'm a tornado of despair and angst for a long time.

It takes almost two months of Tony ignoring me for me to snap. School lets out mid-June, and I'm either sneaking out to the liquor store for whiskey and cigarettes, or I'm on my windowsill ingesting them. Before I met Vic, I would sometimes climb onto my roof to drink or smoke. I can't do that anymore. Roofs are sacred. I can never go on one again.

The thing with Tony is, I've been depressed before, and he's helped me snap out of it. Everyone has that phase between thirteen and fifteen where the tiniest thing sets you off and you're either ready to punch someone in the throat or burst into tears. I was a goddamn crier. I started skipping school and working up the nerve and the money to buy a gun off someone so that I could shoot myself because I thought that it would never fucking end. I thought I'd be a tortured fourteen-year-old forever (yes, I am aware of how melodramatic that sounds). Anyway, Tony slapped some sense into me eventually. He made me realize that everyone gets sad, especially when they're teenagers. That's when the sex drive kicks in and it's all a mess of hormones and angst.

It's different with Vic's death. For one thing, Tony isn't here. I became a faggot, he became a stranger. It really fucking blows because he was the one person who could tolerate my bouts of bitchiness and hyperactivity. Me putting my dick somewhere I shouldn't was enough to send him packing. Figures. Tony was a loyal friend, but he was biased to all hell, and now he's nothing but an asshole.

The other thing is, death isn't temporary. Me being fourteen and upset that I had to mow the lawn? That ended. But Vic...Vic isn't coming back. And that's why, close to the end of July, I get really, really pissed off.

Vic did not deserve to die. Aside from the whole gay thing, he was an exorbitantly good person. I'm the one who fucking deserved it. I'm a basket case with a short temper and no talent. The fact that anyone—fucking God—could let him die and let me live shows me that the world is chaos. Vic could've made a difference. He could've gone somewhere. He probably could've toured with Bowie or Black Flag; I'm sure either one would've loved to take him. Well, fuck you, God, and your goddamn death list. There's no chance in hell I'll listen to you if you let shit like this happen.

Occasionally, my mom feels bad for me and loans me a few dollars to get myself something from the grocery store. Usually, I hoard it until I have enough for liquor or cigarettes, but on the sixteenth, I really want some chips.

So I walk down to the gas station. It's broad fucking daylight—if I still had my hair, I probably wouldn't have the energy to spike it, so even if I didn't have a buzzcut I'm desperately trying to get used to, I'd still probably have the same black beanie tucked over my ears. It must make me look pretty thuggish, considering a woman with a stroller crosses the street when she sees me. I guess the leather jacket doesn't help. Cool how yuppies and preppies are so quick to judge a book by its cover.

I step inside the refreshing, air-conditioned space, discreetly wiping the sweat from my upper lip. There's a small Chinese man guarding the counter. He eyes me distrustfully as I wander down the first aisle. Scumbag. To spite him, I swipe a pack of gum.

It's when I'm reaching for the Doritos that someone bumps my shoulder, hard. I turn.

Tony goddamn Perry.

Something about how casually he's willing to smash into me, and the way he mutters, "fag," sets my vision alight with red, and before I can help myself, he's on the ground and I'm raising a fist to punch him.

I do it. I punch him. Again and again. This fucking asshole stepped right out of my life after I lost something important to me. Best friends for six years, and he leaves. How cold. How goddamn heartless. Why shouldn't he know what it feels like to be torn up without warning? Obviously, he has no emotions. Well, I ought to make him feel something, like a fist to the face.

He struggles underneath me, but I'm too livid for him to even come close to fighting back. Then, something pulls me back. It's the Chinese man. He can't hold me for more than a second, but by the time I break out of his grip, Tony's on the other end of the aisle.

"What the hell, queer?" he roars. I growl and pounce toward him. He just backs up. "You're fucking crazy! What did I ever do to you?"

"You fucking abandoned me," I howl. "Someone died and you just left!"

"No duh I left, faggot! You were probably in love with me! You probably would've raped me!"

"I have fucking standards, Perry, and I'd never do anything with you. You're goddamn fugly!"

"Yeah?" he laughs dryly. "Funny how you're the virgin and I've slept with at least twenty chicks."

"I'm not a virgin, buckwheat. I had sex and it was a hundred times better than anything you'll ever have."

"I don't want to hear about your disgusting faggot sex. Why don't you just go kill yourself? Join your little boyfriend in Hell so that he can stick his cock in your asshole and give you AIDS for all eternity?"

I hiss and lunge for him, but he evades me. Then, I'm chasing him out of the store. I want to kill this prick. I really want to kill him. I sprint after him for two blocks before something hits me and I'm on the ground, desperately trying to suck in air.

"You're under arrest," barks a voice in my ear. "You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say or do can and will be used against you in a court of law."

That's how I end up in a police car on the way to the Los Angeles Police Station in handcuffs. I'm being arrested. I'm being arrested, and it's all Vic Fuentes' fault.

I end up getting out before the night is over, but my parents are not happy with me. They ground me. Figures. It doesn't stop me from sneaking out for what I need.

It's usually stolen, since I have no money. Alcohol and cigarettes. That's my life. I get into two more fights, this time not with Tony, and this time without the cops finding out. What they do find out about is the beer and cigarettes I steal the day before the calendar turns to September. The details aren't important; what's important is how they send me packing to juvie. Goddamn juvie. In his anger, my real dad disowns me, but he takes it back after a week. I'm sure he'll do it again when he finds out I'm gay, and he won't take it back that time.

I'm an angry person. I'm angry at God; I'm angry at Tony; I'm angry at the police; I'm angry at my parents; and I'm really, really angry at Vic Fuentes.

I'm angry because he was a pissant who couldn't defend himself well enough to survive. I'm angry because he kissed me out in the open and got us beat up. I'm angry because I met him. I'm angry because his voice was fueled by the most unrivaled set of lungs I've ever heard; because his eyes could be so wide and innocent that they had galaxies inside them; because there were parts of him that were smooth, parts of him that were rough, and all of him was so full of life, yet he let it be snuffed out.

I'm angry because I let it be snuffed out.

It takes a long time for me to do anything but bitch at people. I don't see the point until I meet Jack.

No, I don't get all the credit for my enlightenment.

Jack is strange. I hate him at first. Everything about him pisses me off; his jarring chirpiness. His huge brown eyes. His absolute lack of shame. And then I realize why it pisses me off, and I start to really want to kiss Jack.

They let me out of juvie before him, but I leave with his home address and a strange feeling about him in my stomach. I know it isn't right, but it gives me some sense of closure. I think it's okay if I'm selfish and try to keep Jack. I think it's okay.

And because I'm still seventeen, you could probably say that the whole moving-on aspect is at least a little bit artificial. I am not a grown-up. I'm barely old enough to even comprehend half the things that have happened to me since my birthday. And you know what? I know that. I like to pretend that I'm cool enough to be able to handle grown-up things like love and death, but I am not. However, I've gotten through my entire life whole-assing my feigned grasping of everything I encounter. I am not one to bullshit my bullshit.

For me, it works. I convince everyone, including myself, that I can tackle whatever is thrown at me. And eventually, I catch up. So after I take my leave of absence on my too-cool façade, I'm able to hop back on and squint arrogantly at the world. Maybe someday I'll thank Jack for waking me up.

I think I'm going to make sure this one lives. Being a faggot won't be easy, but it doesn't mean I can't love. And forgetting Vic won't be easy, but it doesn't mean I can't move on.

I'll forget Vic. I'll fall for Jack. I won't forget that the world is a terrible place.

And maybe I'll quit being so ticked off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Salut ✌
> 
> This is the end; there will not be a sequel (which I think is pretty obvious, but I figured I'd say it just in case). I'm not sure when exactly I'll be posting the first chapter of my next story, which is a tattoo shop AU perrentes, but it might be awhile. I'm guessing closer to the summertime. I have to do a shitload of writing for it because I'll be posting twice a week on that instead of just once. Follow me for updates on that. I'm also working on a few other things on the side, so we'll see what gets done.
> 
> Thank you all for reading! I put a lot of effort into this and I'll probably do some editing in a few months just to make sure it's as good as possible. Writing this was an emotional mosh pit and I'm glad you all joined in and punched me and stuff.
> 
> RECOMMENDED LISTENING:  
> Agent Orange: "Bloodstains," "Breakdown"  
> T.S.O.L.: "Funeral March," "Code Blue"  
> Social Distortion: "Another State of Mind"  
> Angry Samoans: "Homo-Sexual," "The Todd Killings," "Lights Out"  
> Adolescents: "L.A. Girl," "Creatures"  
> Wasted Youth: "Teenage Nark," "Punk for a Day"  
> Black Flag: "White Minority," "No Values," "T.V. Party"  
> China White: "Night Life"
> 
> RECOMMENDED WATCHING:  
> Another State of Mind (documentary of the 1982 Social Distortion/Youth Brigade tour)
> 
> Again, thank you so much. I hella love you all.
> 
> \- Josh


	7. Author's Note

CHAPTER FOUR IS UP


End file.
